Buy Me Books (poem, 2015)

I don't like people

Buy me books

Or 

I only like people who write books,

People whose life books,

Whose struggle look like art,

Who tear apart notepads,

Rip through beats.

Only pay attention 

To pens, pencils, and sheets

Only care

For mics, stages, and fleek,

People I need front row tickets to see,

People like me:

With no home just a binding.

All the scriptures wrapped up

To bind me

To humans who don't like me

But who write me love,

Write me beautiful,

Write me always here for ya.

Write me

Tryna find me

SUNGLASSES SO THE B.S. DON'T BLIND ME.

Tryna give me,

So you can get you,

Become one of those people

I don't like,

Don't like me.

Don't mind me.

Just use me

As a path to the cross,

A laugh for the lost,

A cast for broken hearts.

So you know,

So you grow,

So you can live

Through whatever techno lens 

Is the biz 

when you know who you is

Before you're too old 

to impress the critics.

Sold Separately

They say "the dream is free, but the hustle is sold separately."

I've got bad news: the hustle is still cheap, and fulfillment is sold separately.

And to be honest, fulfillment - while not cheap - is affordable, but balance is sold separately.

Balance is expensive but attainable. Loyalty is sold separately.

Frozen Heart (poem, 2015

(Inspired by someone who's been hurt 

And by the movie Frozen)

He hates people thinking he’s crazy

Such a relative term

When you don’t know why.

When his hand is bleeding but he can’t feel it.

When his girlfriend is crying and he didn’t mean it.

Unmelting snowflake 

Floating in a pot of black coffee.

We expect him to cool off our heat,

Play the role of cream,

Make everything sweeter.

They don’t know he’s frozen.

Doesn’t like the word “broken,”

Because ice is “stronger than one,

Stronger than ten, 

Stronger than a hundred men.”

One moment he was driving,

Pushing back the line. 

Then the sky went black at noon

And he was sliding down a mountain

Towards a tomb glimpsed way too soon.

Now he’s clutching at redemption

From the tailspin hell-bent on killing him too.

Brakes won’t grip.

Knowledge of right and wrong won’t stick.

Can’t slow his descent into the abyss.

I fling him an ice pick

Beg him to “strike for fear”

Hard enough to anchor the spirit.

“Strike for love”

What’s left behind is enough.

He’d never frighten innocence if he could help it.

Would cradle beauty in his palm if he could feel.

I watch from my tower of isolation

Praying he’ll find the strength in his arm

To split the ice apart.

Muscles bunched

To destroy or save.

All we can do is wait.

Either way,

We know he’ll break the frozen heart.