How i Used 2 Write When i Wuz Young
Days wax. Ax the poli-tical in place of the lyrical death row overthrow
five times the wu-tang clang into the metaphysical. Higher ground? Lost
Poets who live in torn out caves of urban life rife with individual & collectives
strife(s) boxed into a segregated SUB-universe... PUSH GROove yet there is a
connected-ness ... R
U not detecting this? B-tween this hemisphere & dat? ...
Deuce Ur ryhmes and flow into it.
PAce the beat Back in 2 a Slower
How I Used To Write When I Was Young
Hair wiretrigger what doo U figure? What did i have 2 lose? The mainstream worldnot
yet my native tongue 'cuz of its perpetual separation Frum me. Grades school slam
down, 'Here's yr paper b ack. Thinkmoreacceptibly, not so deceptively, precocious but skilled A-. Grades used 2 define us. Robbins Island of the mind. Is this how my life story so far read to U, then U read it, REd it w/ liar's eyes...See U
may have 'corrected' me but U did not finish me. I will DEFINE ME. Even when U think U do
my certain blues overcome U. Tribute to the tribe dragged here. Spear chucker me 1 time
& I will expotentially scream this at U. U do not own me - only yr atrocities.
Groove deep into the
Disenfranchised back beat, couple of old heads laying down poverty tracks on the refuse lids of the
streets. Even when U think U doo De-fine me, if U re-create me in your social light, there is a connected-ness & U wuz searching for the God Particle, the authentic non-article of already discernment,2.
Old men has beens sit on the tip of their deaths waiting to know the self U keep hiding in yr
acceptance shadows no matter the shade of the skin suit they R in.
No portraits of them on yr WALLS.They have to claim their own His-story. They have to 'see His glory', works of His hands understand, standing until the dust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem