Leave Me Be (pt I)

Sometimes you have nothing to give. And what you have is not for giving. It’s for you only.

Sometimes I have no words to manipulate. And the ones I have don’t exist yet. But they’re there for me. Not to give.

It’s a point of peace I want to climb into comfort with, just to take off from where I have been. Nothing to share. Just to save.

Sometimes I don’t realize somewhere I have not seen. Where I was taints the image to fool my feelings, but it’s always different..always the same. And where I am is not for collection. It’s for me.

Sometimes I only have nothing.
Sometimes I only have silence.
Sometimes I am foreign.
Sometimes I forget.
Those times are the recipe that summon up to be one breath to take.

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Are We There Yet


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in chicago: notion 20.

UP!::urban po'E.Tree(s)

notion 20.

left handed piece for the broken right.
go in reverse.
go in reverse
to curse the verse.
which is worse,
we are stuck
here on earth
w/ out wings to fly,
or an imagination
to escape.

so i start asking questions,
and then my brain starts
to wander off
into the night
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.

and i’m not afraid to dream.
and i’m not afraid to sleep.
left handed piece for the broken right
cause i am not like you.

we will all just become
someone else’s memories,
but so then tell me
what were we before?
(because what is
the standard of reality?)

please, an island.
find me an island
to wander off
into the night.
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.

we sing our songs
to remember the worlds

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Get low
Make friends with these monsters 
They show me their sides
But I don’t oblige 
Slip between the comfort and turn the insides out
Expose what’s really there
What everyone’s about 
Lay the guts on the alter 
They’ll lament their voids and shout:
“I hate you. I’m dying here. How could you let me..”
But all I am is a reminder 
of what they try not to let be seen. 


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Twice A Child

We had it right 
We were ourselves 
Small scale hopes were our best wishes. 
Dinner was play time like any time. 
We know no other ways. 

Before the pressure to be anything 
We were ourselves 
We had it right. 
Luxurious things were luxurious things 
We knew nothing more of our worlds
than what was supposed to be 
I think..

A boogey man turned our dreams 
to nightmares 
He forced his entry in our heads, 
our beds, our darkness. 
We began to see him everywhere 
Who we like, what we eat, the things we see..

As we grew 
We made him bigger 
He infiltrated so heavily we did away with trust 
I think..

Our approach changed
So much so, we did with it. 
We forgot how to play 
to honestly speak 
to think
to be. 

The boogey-man shifted into so many things
We take to his ways and do so many things 
Before we may have been 
properly taught our powers 

He came in the vulnerable hours and robbed us. 
Replaced what we know with fears.
He hasn’t been caught by the consensus since. 
I think..

Is he what scared us into these tormented things? 
I think, we had it right all along. 

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It’s more than you 
Often times we need more of you. 


Denial is the longest lie ever told 
to the first reflection of life you’ll ever mold. 
To be without you is to skip a beat
not all of us were born with rhythm 
or are bold enough to confront empty soles,
following your feet..


More downs are spoken about you than uplifting.
More reckless abandonment 
than selfless gifting. 
The hurt held is compulsively given
from generations of bad habits, 
fallen kingdoms, criminal living. 
I don’t know you myself,
but your spirit I’ve personally felt
through examples of you that survived better treatment and health..


The world can be dark without you
Usually leftover feelings of endless rejection. 
Forgotten, unprotected. 


Do the math in life: 
the Moon, the Mom,
to the Star, the seed, 
with the Sun, that’s you son, 
The real holy trinity makes your universe complete. 



For Taron Petteway.

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On My Momma

Momma ain’t got no blues for me.
She just does for me what she knows.
If I know nothing better
I know the dark solace in the pin
Cushion of her couch.

The t.v’s too vivid to think.
I’ve got my own company..no.
Momma slips me her love letters
It should but don’t make me feel wind
Beating from my blouse.

Her most prized possession post ’93.
Most questionable how she sees me grow and go.
Her complex child seems to upset her.
When I leave she’ll go in
And flip the sides of her little mouth.

I’ve been back and forth with making this one public because of how much it means. But poems like these are the truer, vulnerable views into a writer. No fair being stingy. Most of us can relate to the battle of living with our mothers lol..it runs deep. Enjoy it all. Peace.

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