PoeticMayheim
As My Pen Writes
welcome to the marvelous adventures of a poet and his pen;
joined at the hip
they hop on paper,
canvas,
or cardboard
in the dead of the night
or that priceless moment labeled twilight;
I'm stuck with the notion to prophetically,
physically put my genetic pen in motion,
ink quickly consuming the page
eating it up like a skateboarder
skating on a road that has been freshly paved;
Blessing empty pages
with cleaver phrases
as my eyes gaze in between the lines
reading what's subliminal inside these words intertwined;
telling me to never stop,
always watch for the unscrupulous plots
of cops that frequently cruise our bloc
none stop
busting young hustlers slanging little rocks;
its insanity the way my pen controls my hand
writing things I've seen in the darkness of my dreams
describing my sub-conscious emphatically,
is this reality
or some strange form of blasphemy
tragedically writing rapidly
to document the day's history;
us killing us,
mommas losing their children's trust,
fathers not around to pick us up and wipe off the dust,
but I don't cry over spilt milk,
fuss,
or
complain cause I can feel his blood flowing through my veins
regardless of the pain
I will survive and enjoy my pen
as we ride
and
it continues to smoothly glide
from left to right
writing down lines
that give the public a small glimpse of my life
as my pen writes......
welcome to the marvelous adventures of a poet and his pen;
joined at the hip
they hop on paper,
canvas,
or cardboard
in the dead of the night
or that priceless moment labeled twilight;
I'm stuck with the notion to prophetically,
physically put my genetic pen in motion,
ink quickly consuming the page
eating it up like a skateboarder
skating on a road that has been freshly paved;
Blessing empty pages
with cleaver phrases
as my eyes gaze in between the lines
reading what's subliminal inside these words intertwined;
telling me to never stop,
always watch for the unscrupulous plots
of cops that frequently cruise our bloc
none stop
busting young hustlers slanging little rocks;
its insanity the way my pen controls my hand
writing things I've seen in the darkness of my dreams
describing my sub-conscious emphatically,
is this reality
or some strange form of blasphemy
tragedically writing rapidly
to document the day's history;
us killing us,
mommas losing their children's trust,
fathers not around to pick us up and wipe off the dust,
but I don't cry over spilt milk,
fuss,
or
complain cause I can feel his blood flowing through my veins
regardless of the pain
I will survive and enjoy my pen
as we ride
and
it continues to smoothly glide
from left to right
writing down lines
that give the public a small glimpse of my life
as my pen writes......
