On this pen and pad I unleash my wrath,
Taking words and constructing my subject’s figurative blood bath,
Hell may hath no fury like a woman’s scorn,
But Hell falls short also when compared to a poet recalling his life’s path all shredded and torn.
"What’s your inspiration?" they ask,
It’s the killer of my soul in my family using the title of dad as his mask,
It’s my black role models seeking their life’s understanding in a wine flask,
It's myself looking grief, pain, sorrow, the uncertainty of tomorrow and whatever else the world leaves at my door step square in the face, while finding the courage to tell my hopes and aspirations to keep pace.
It’s when the police use bullets and mace, when a “Good evening sir.” would have worked just as well in that time and place.
It’s when shady folks smile and a laugh in my face,
While seeing how much grass on the other side of the fence they can taste,
It’s my young brothers taking life as something they can waste,
Thinking education is a simple as “Cut and Paste.”
See I find inspiration, because the problems of life come without hesitation.
Just as pearls form from an oyster’s irritation,
So do my words to combat this war of the little man that stands among the giants and goes unspoken for.
I stand proud and say I refuse to call my black queens, although some may still be in training, bitches and whores,
Take life serious, because when death comes he’s not so easy to ignore…
No comments:
Post a Comment