Note to readers: I have not been writing on my website due to issues happening on earth. I have not been feeling like the artist is here for change. The artists has been using real issues as marketing just like the politicians. It feels as if the revolutionary does it for pay too. Does everyone want the dollar that has been a tool against them? Why am I selling writings that I’ve never intended to put on market? Why am I selling paintings and photos meant for therapy?
Why does the working class still work?
What if the workers worked for themselves and their neighbors?
What if their neighbors did the same?
Is art important to our problems? I think so, but I fear the artist who becomes an agent to what doesn’t help.
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Wide grin on the face of a child holding hands with a broken parent, who hasn’t seen happiness in a while/
Sunshine burns on the neck when the head turns face-down on a gray, cold ground/
When the hollering and screaming coming from the weak is all around/
Don’t greet me with a dap, don’t ask me for a pound/
Not until the babies stop crying/
Not until the kids is safe and sound/
Whether that requires handshakes or a sniper hidden deep within a crowd/
[Writer’s voice]: “too much of a reach. Too much rhyme. too cliche. delete?”
[new line]
I used to think I didn’t need no therapy nor therapist, I used thera-flu and sleep to retrieve my peace/
And constantly burning lungs with tress so that I can breathe in life for keeps/
Stopped smoking. Stopped smoking for some days. Nightmares woven in my sheets/
[Writers voice]: Why don’t you talk about something happier? Stop talking about yourself. You’re so selfish and self-centered.
[New line]
nope.
[The voice of doom and despair]: “I’m blocking your writing. This is a block.”
[New Line]
Get away/
Safe vacation /
Vacate vacant lots/
Empty hearts parked in parking lots/
A lot of time and patience to give love that start/
[new line]
And I can’t even go outside when somebody need my help/
Cause I’m too scared of losing my life for them/
[the voice]: “you’ve done this so many times. Scared to help cause you know you’ll get hurt too. Worthless. You were right, you’re a useless artist”
[reply ]But who will help me? Who ever helped other than a friend or family? And was the help ever when I was in danger? And will I have to be the only one who always runs out? Will others follow with me, the next time? Sometimes I think it’s just “ not my fight, not my problem” and this is how I got here. Who are you, but a voice? If they can’t see me, they for sure don’t even know you exist.
]the voice[: a prideful coward, you are.
[new line]:
Kiss your favorite rapper’s dreads, instead of cutting or killing them/
Leave ‘em brain dead/
[good voice]“No”
[new line]:
Looking at the thunder through the sun rays/
Was praying on sundays but the light never came so I dwindled in the dark/
Focused on my art/
[new line]:
Now I can’t even lie to you/
The pressure bring me closer to the maker/
My hands can’t take it/
But who gon mold the wood and hammer nails into the pine box?/
[new line]:
Three- way calls I didn’t know about/
Two was not a team/
It’s all over after one time for me/
The world really ain’t what it seems/
Facades and hypocrisy/
And anti-sober dreams/
Sleeping with debauchery/
Ripping through the seems of flattery as mockery/
[The voice of doom]:
Hi, hello. This is negative. You are cynic. You are funny. No, I’m funny. You are hilarious. You ask for peace but can only speak on what’s no good?
[new line]:
Waves in the sky/
I can see em/
Kinda like water/
Flipping what I’m seeing/
[“you should try telling a story”]
Walking on the ceiling/
Talking about them demons?/
Can’t fight em if I be em/
Born suffering, brought into the world bleeding/
Somethings get better, others don’t/
Starting to believe it ain’t got no meaning/
Tryna find the in between of the highs and lows/
In the drama chaos of the seasons/
[New line]:
Stroking when I grip the pen/
I mastubate for inner peace/
Still can’t find the words to say/
The poetry keep edging me/
Found the pleasure in my pain/
This writer’s block is kinky/
Flirting with my inner-peace/
[New line]
There’s more earth at the bottom of the deepest parts of the ocean/
I can ground myself there/
Finding structure in the unknown/
What are we doing here?/
[new line]
40 degree weather in December in the Midwest/
Global warming showing me glimpses of spring/
[voice]: no no no no
[new line]:
Was thinking about you/
Then they said your name/
[voice]: “I think I’m done with this, is it time to move on to the next thing?”
[The writer]: yes, it’s time to move on. What will we do next? I’ve been thinking about painting again. I’ve started up. It’s not what I’ve imagined but I like it so far. It’s simple. Probably not groundbreaking to an audience but it makes me happy. I can keep writing too. We can work together instead of against each other. I think we’ve been doing that for awhile. I love you. I want you to know that no matter how negative you become, I appreciate what you’ve done. I appreciate what I’ve been able to do for you. There’s more to come. Hold on. I know it gets hard, but it’ll be ok. You’re this way because you’re hurting. Let’s do it together.