Humble Mouths

Raw Perspectives! Wordplay from active minds and humble mouths.

Archive for the category “Inspirational”

Black in White

OK so…
Picture a neck and it’s attached to a rope
All the strands and fibers are the opposite of hope.
The knot is compassion, no matter how it seems because I threw my whole life at it and I’ll pay double to breathe.
Beams of pressure, relative to the mass of my weight under the stature of my stress.
Never thought I’d be aloft on a rope with Depression bouncing on my shoulders like a crazy 3 yr-old, thighs locked around my throat.
He gloats and the smell of a** at the back of my neck is revolting.
Tears fall out the pockets of my soul onto my cheeks.
Fear waves anxiously at me from a neighboring tree.
I kick, I kick, I swim…
Trying to displace enough air to lift my future out of this noose.
My hands go stiff, pre embalmed no more blood to claw at the hemp strands. They sink into my respiratory… my pulmonary, my spirituality and stop.

My tears subside and the viewing smiles lose their place in convulsions.
Pale faces, same faces that made aged faces sing amazing graces because of disgraces and segregated races boy I bet you wouldn’t wanna trade places!
This tree, almost companion less now knows me best and all of my carbon traces.
My pupils black and filled with death, face drained of light, left in fright, world once greens and reds and beautiful blues of all vertical shades and horizontal hues is only; white…

But it was born black?

***This is a direct response to the countless lives altered by the perpetuated hate of race or religion. #coexist ***

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#freedom

How long have I loathed to pen things that pop off pamphlets, notepads, Facebook walls and twitter feeds like stallion erections… [pause]
He used to be poet, he used to craft bars out of Dos Equis because he is anything but the ordinary selection.
He is confident in his skill, not so sure about freewill,  very mistaken about refills and highly susceptible to expression.
#freedom

Lean on It

If I ever needed something… shoulder to lean on it.
I been on it but life, it’s clever it’s demonic.
Rain just hits my window I’m crying I lean on it.
Lean until I fall through, like picture no screens on it.
Picture a man walking but there isn’t a scene on it.

No picture to rewind to, no dvr, tivo… no re-running.

Dreams might be deferred but I just can’t dream on it.
Not when my son’s mom blocks my shoulder so he can’t lean on it.
Young boy less than 10 like Similac with cream on it.
Promise the kid’s got the brains just needs the self esteem on it.
I had him less than 20 like a peach with fuzz for real on it.
Promise I lacked brains just needed the reality check with the “real” on it.
I used to have a vision but now I need high beams on it.
So used to a rocky road but never saw the fog and trees on it,
Forest fallen by the wayside and with the lumberjacks who leaned on it.

Now I am lost, fatigued and hopeless,
Lack of faith for fuel and driven with stress.
My game is off, my aim is a mess.
Too much pressure in responsibility, by similarity of “s”
Too selfish for Love when my words about her have been known to be blessed.
Confused and abused, in tune with failure; I know how to carve a new beginning and it involves detailers.
I can lean on this knife, while holding it over my gripes.
Lean until the blades cuts through the layers of life.
*exaggeration, deception, lies, hopes, embarrassment, insecurity and mediocrity.
I’ll lean now, all the way on it.
I did…

But the layers were too strong like couldn’t cut the seams on it.
Hidden seems like:
My wife and kids,  the ribs,  the hopes,  my Lord had too much steel on it.

My God has bigger shoulders than mines,  enough to lean on if…

I ever needed something

“Who do we think we are…”

John Legend sings, “Who do we think we are…?” Bellowing in another room.

And I fall into concern for self,
Considering all the notches on my belt.
Are these the stories that define my life?
Money I’ve blown, material I own, failing health.
Masking my emotions in a masquerade of career choices and stealth.

And does it all… All fall down?
Because putting it back together seems like a long shot now.
Roadblocks; where failure meets determination and fresh Kung Pao,
White wines and OJ for group toasts now.
Pro-whatever meetings and prayers to excel on the DOW.
It’s just a tiny piece of my soul for a huge fortune of gold, I’m doing better than Judas, but kisses plant equally cold.

The music is still blaring like a concert in the distance, “Who do we think we are…?” Says John Legend.
Clowns like Heath Ledger?
I’m all in the red with ambitions of swiping my name off the ledger.
In the sincerest attempts of becoming a #BOSS

Lost aspect of self, I’m a bigger man though my frame doesn’t agree,
Loss my way on the path to Jesus, traded that for African monarchy.
Bones buried before the bible knew ink,
Before historians knew slave master’s drove their religion into our drinks, and into our kids, then courtesy of whips, now courtesy of “the fix.”

“Who do we think we are?”

A people?

**** A piece inspired by John Legend ft. Rick Ross “Who do we think we are?”

What Would It Be?

If you could ask one question to the universe, God or even the most prolific person you’ve never met what would it be?
Where would you summon the words from?
Would they frame your entire character or describe a small extension of your being?

In that moment would it be your greatest experience?
Would you have the courage to vocally ask it… that thing that’s been eating at your existence?
Who would it be directed to and most definitely what about?
No regs.

But before you utter your query, that festering sore you’ve managed to cultivate into grammar and syntax;
Remember some things are not meant to be comprehended or divulged to people who have no need to know.
Even worse, sometimes certain things should not manifest themselves.

Yet still, if you could conjure one single open ended thought for someone or something else that you absolutely revere to explain; what would it be?

Advanced Poet (AP)

No more pretty poetry from a poet,
Just wicked pronouns dressed in funeral attire.

Caskets full of whatever onlookers inquire.
Murdering papèl sheets just so you know it.

#FCKWITHMEYOUKNOWIGOTIT

Reverse couplets in couples…
I just want Metaphor to deliver triplets until her knees buckle.
Suckling her breast for the spontaneous discharge.
This charge, is all that’s needed for me to take charge.
Accepting alternating voltages for my stationary oscillations, impatient revolutions; the revolution squirts forth from reveling pen tips, fan breeze and Uniball paper scars.

My paper’s mate hearts ink.
Using blots to clot wood lint like chain links.
I volunteer verbs vigorously for genocide camps.
Bottle-necking stanzas into suicide brochures under coffee table lamps.
Issuing cavalier citations professing as invitations to the authors of prose.
I chose to pen this in blood, dancing mahogany stems in one cup of… all that bled from my knows.

Eyes, nose… better than most of society that poets are syntax pros.
Unappreciated unlike mathematicians,
They break numbered equations and we decipher alphabetical codes.
They provide schematics and we put the magic semantics in magician!

Advanced Poet, that’s just another way of saying, seasoned poetry.

Writer’s Block

There is an unexplainable moment of peace, however it’s never very tranquil.

Excruciating pain, watching words come to an abrupt and inflamed halt.

It’s almost like they single filed themselves to a destined firing squad.

I try to find measurements to verbalize to inquiring minds how suffocating the anguish is; scales from 1 through 50.

The only thing I am certainly left with is the title I began with: writer’s block.

Where are the Poets?

I spent my entire life twisting phrases in inoperable ways,
trying my hardest to live up to this title of “Poet” and everything that being a poet says.
Waging wars with warped weapons welcomed as words over whisky; alphabetical food trays.
Serving up something diligent to any bystander, audience member or those engaging in the casual gaze.

At first I was most intrigued by huge adjectives but even more so by dissecting them down into edible fillets,
Then I tried to subdue my hues and cues to couplets but free form became the only way for my prose to graze.
So I unleashed an Armageddon of cross burning consonants strung up by nooses bound like consonance of K’s.
                                                                  [KKK get it??]
Anyways, I believed God branded me with a talent to tally verbal compilations in rhythmical compliance.
Deter the social structure and poke socialism like an accepting vagina, to uprise against conformity with defiance.
My only alliance, was with heaven and the pen. That which I drew from stone, manifesting beastly comparisons and drafting contrasts from the wits of geniuses and the bicep mass of giants.
Ink etching lifelike formations from mere abc’s; my god-like appliance…
                       Notably morphing metaphors into matadors in metaseconds maniacally!

But in the midst of it all I noticed I was alone in my dwarfed universe.

Where are the Poets?

I haven’t met that many, my mentor and the greats before him have passed on and in their honor I go ape-shit-poetic every chance I get.
You’re out there though and for the few I have found with the exception of the Def Poets, I follow you… I am a part of the mission, I am a sublet.
But the multitude of undiscovered wordsmiths and lyricists that I have not yet encountered…
Where are you?

Where are the Poets?

Do Please

Enter a world where the contact is achieved by physical means…
Interested in saying something, do please.

Open your mouth and test your larynx,
No touch screens,
Invest in wise words because there are no acronyms for courteous, conversational aptitude, expression and mannerisms; you know like saying please.

It’ll be tense ridding ourselves of the LOLs and the WYDs,
It’s comical how grammar and spelling became an international outrage so shortly after uranium, terrorism, anthrax and WMDs.

So enter a world where the contact is achieved by physical means…
Interested in saying something, then do please.

Make a phone call on a landline,
In 5 years it’ll probably require a certification,
Have dialogue with a face rather than facetime sometime.
You’ll probably get a kick out of the excitation.
Express beyond the monotony of emoticons I dare you to make audible sentences that feature exclamations.
Include hand gestures like quotations and the almighty middle finger explanation.
High five when saying the same thing with someone simultaneously!
Throw an accent, twist in the bilingual skills; whether you have them or not.
Say some corny shit like cross the t’s and dot the i’s.
Add intensity with enlarging the size of your eyes.
Use a smile between words, live between the pauses!

Exit the world where contact is achieved by digital means…
Interested in saying something, then do please.

Pens and Pencils

Mighty pennnnnn!!!!

             Mightier pencil!!!!

I am at mercy of your blotting skills,
I play you in every major chord refuting that mere people can slay the images you have inked and leaded; what printed thrills!
I expedite the art of Confucious to confuse “us” with tactical menopause causing word strings and three-dimensional shade fills.

Am I not a mother-fucking ARTIST!??!??!

I illustrate spaces with the point of my eraser and I bend reality with the ball of my Bic tip.
As fruitful for multiplication as the ____tip, I breed thoughts onto naive and gullible minds laying lifeless strapped to my blog’s mattress sick with…
My verbal sperm like infestations floating around inside, expanding like mitosis within there organelle sized cells’ cerebellums.
Infecting their probe pods something viral!

My schematics and blueprints were sketched and etched in notebooks and spirals,
Concoction of algebraic formulas dressed in Braille to secret the  messages delivered to your spinals’ vitals.
I am artiste, and at least, I have the common decency to inform you that I am ploying your minds, misguiding your pupils and curbing the finals.

No. 2 or Papermate?
              I achieve the same literary greatness crafting archipelagos out of toxic writing fluids and the famed canned poison man outfitted commonly in tan.
Pens and Pencils….

                   My soul’s extensions.

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