Just My Thoughts: Sucka Emcee... #Poetry

Just My Thoughts: Sucka Emcee... #Poetry: The time between this verse and the verse I wrote before this has been awhile/ I consider awhile to be one full moon and then 2...

"Sucka Emcee" #Poetry #REMIX

The time between this verse and the verse I wrote before this has been awhile/

I consider awhile to be one full moon and then 2 full moons later/

That very night, inspiration herself came to visit me bathed in moonlight and irony/

The irony was this/

She came by way of the Moon/ But she spoke on how we popped and locked to the record
"Planet Rock"

She spoke of Hip Hop culture and the days of Boom Bap/

How consciousness moved underground/ and how popular culture became wack/

She opened the pocket behind me/ then she pushed me and I fell back/

At that/ very moment an approach was decided/

The approach to this verse/

Like the angle of a pen aimed towards paper/

The angle of a turntable's needle laying in the groove of vinyl/

The angle of 2 heads tilting just before a kiss/

The angle of a Dragon’s back just before he attacks/

Again I say the approach to the verse was decided/

Inspiration came to me because my love for the culture of Hip Hop is sincere/

And suddenly everything became oh... so... clear/

I decided to give the new punk and old name because he’s really not new at all/

Seeing the past and how much things have changed/

Also showed me how much, many things have stayed the same/

So with a salute to Hip Hop, Jam Master Jay, DJ Run and DMC/

I title this verse to be 

"Sucka Emcee"

Sucka Emcee is my general term for those cats that “Emcee” Sucka shit out of their mouths/

I say “Emcee” because they say shit rhythmically/

I say “Emcee” because they preach shit biblically/

For example/ the cats always speaking on wealth/ how they hustle/ how they pursue it/ how they spend it/ how they blew it/ Yet in real life they're part of the few who actually do it/

I will salute those soldiers/ even if I don't agree/ with their braggadocios philosophy/

But for all those other Cats/ filling their verses with drug packs/ money stacks/ cooking and selling crack/ exaggerated truths and twisted facts/ when their real life day to day doesn't even come close to that/

You are definitely a Sucka Emcee/

I salute you as well but with mixed emotions like I would have at the funeral of a crooked cop/

21 guns fired off at the cemetery/

Cowards can almost smell the gun powder/

Scared to death because thoughts travel faster than bullets/

Making poetry change lanes dangerous like folks who don't check their blind spot/

Now then/

A Sucka Emcee/ could possibly be/ that Cat who speaks with contempt about what you stand to gain/

So consumed by exploiting you they refuse to see the blessings they had coming/

A Sucka Emcee/ could certainly be/ that Cat who talks shit to calm skies and turns bitch when the storm hits/

A Sucka Emcee/ might even be/ that Cat that never follows through/ always speaking on what they’re going to do/ when the intentions aren't matched by ambition/

One who stands at the intersection where dreams become old and regret becomes new/

However the worst kind of Sucka Emcee/ is an artist who expresses fearfully/ without the courage to stay true to them-self/ afraid people won’t accept who they are to the core/

A Sucka Emcee/ could even be/ a poet very similar to me/

But this one doesn't know his history/

Doesn't pay attention to the faces in the audience/ and isn't in touch with the room and its energy/

A poet who speaks so fast you can’t absorb the poetry/

Simply trying to impress you with cryptic words and a propensity for lyrical memory/

Why would I pretend when it's so much fun being me?

I'm from Queens, and I'm not wrapped to tight so I may not be what you expected to see/

I just had to take it back to Jay, Run and DMC/

So take that/ move back and catch a heart attack/

Because there's nothing in the world that Bleu will ever lack/

GB

Just My Thoughts: Celebration of Life #Music #Video

Just My Thoughts: Celebration of Life #Music #Video

Celebration of Life #Music #Video

The Boy Who Could See The Devil

"The Devil is a liar" calmly replies an 11 year old boy, obviously irritated with the questions of two old men. "That boy is a trip ain't he?" asks one old man to the other, but there is no reply from his drinking buddy. His buddy just stares at the boy curled up on the floor, trying to make sense of things. The boy is clutching his head due to a terrible migraine; and his nose has a trickle of blood slowly making its way down his face. The old man who did not answer the question, asks one of his own. "What's wrong with this kid?.. Is he crazy?" he asks. "These kids wouldn't be here if they weren't" replies his friend as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out an old handkerchief as he makes his way over to the boy sitting on the floor. He can barely walk for he's as drunk as a sailor lost at sea. Now standing at the boy's feet, he sways back and forth as he stands towering above him. He doesn't fall, even though he looks like he will with every sway of his unbalanced body. He slumps over, offering the boy his handkerchief with his outstretched arm. The boy can barely bring his eyes to focus on the offering due to his splitting headache. The sunlight in the room seems ten times too bright. His eyelids are dry, making any movement of his eyes a painful one. Even the tear drops do not sooth his pain. The boy forces his dry painful eyes to focus anyway for he knows he will need them shortly.

He knows the evil he will soon see.

He knows what he must do so that his pains will go away.

He sees the handkerchief dangling from a hand that's worked hard over a long span of time. The fingernails are yellow, dirty, cracked and 2 inches too long. His hands are terribly dry with huge knuckles that look like giant marbles. His fingers are bony and veiny, obviously arthritic and brittle. To top it off, his hand stinks of pork rinds and whiskey. The handkerchief is certainly in the same condition. None the less, the boy takes the offered handkerchief and wipes his nose with it. In doing so, he can see the smeared blood on the white of the linen. Even though it wasn't clean to begin with, the boy feels embarrassed. He is hesitant to give the old man his handkerchief back. The boy is also scared not to for he knows this man all too well. The old man drinks to escape his own ugliness. He is moody with or without alcohol in his blood stream. I minute he can be laughing in the midst of a game of "UNO" The next minute he can be slapping the boy across his face, accusing him of cheating during the game. As predicted and as expected, the old man doesn't take kindly to the boy keeping his handkerchief. He is also upset that he's got blood on it as well. Petty? Yes, but this is who he is to the core.

"Now ain't this a bitch?" asks the old man, while doing his best to keep his drunken body upright.

His question again went in the direction of his drinking buddy, who again is a man of few words. His buddy just stares at the boy curiously. The boy looks back at him, and as he stares into his manikin-like face, another drop of blood runs from his nose.

(Feeling like there is nothing to lose, they boy wipes his nose again)

"You have got to be kidding me!" says the old man as the boy vigorously finishes what he started. The old man and the boy are in an open archway that separates a hallway from a dining room on the first floor of a group home. The old man is the grounds keeper and the boy is one of the home's newest guest. The boy is sitting in the fetal position. His knees are at his chest with his back is pressed against the wood beam of the archway. The old man is staggering directly in front of him with his silent friend in the hallway besides him. The old man hunches over to snatch the napkin from the boy's hand but he stumbles off balance. He trips over the boys sneakers and falls head-first into the dining room. He hits his head squarely on the dining room table. It spins him around onto his back on the floor. He is not unconscious. The boy knows this because the old man is cursing him up and down, blaming him for what happened.

"Calvin! I need you to go get my pills and my cane from upstairs!" the old man says while clawing his way up a chair from the floor.

"But Ms. Nana said not to take your pills when you're drinking!"

The old man was slumped over in the chair, looking like he was going to pass out. Until Calvin got mouthy with him that is. The old man's name is Stratford Hall and he's a shell of his former self. Life has dealt him the same random cards it deals to everyone else. Stratford has not played the game very well and he knows it, yet he still blames the dealer.

"If you don't march up the damn steps and bring me my shit. I'm going tell the rest of the boys to beat your ass when they come home!"

Calvin looks at Stratford's drinking buddy, but he's as quiet as cat in a window. His face is void of expression and his eyes are lifeless like that of a doll. He stands in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Calvin knows that he must go past him to get the pills, but he is afraid to do so. Calvin looks back over at Stratford just as he falls asleep in the chair. As soon as he does, the old man in the hallway speaks.

"How is it that you can see me?" asks the old man.

"I don't know I just can" says Calvin while squinting his eyes as his headache intensifies.

"Do you know my name as well?" he asks but Calvin doesn't answer this time. He rises up from off of the floor and starts to make his way around the old timer towards the stairs. The area around the old man is stale and without life. It feels 5 degrees colder in the space that's around him. Calvin tries not to look him in the face but he cannot help himself. He looks up at his face as he walks past and notices that his eyes have even less life in them than before. They are totally black now. The old man also has a nose bleed same as him...

Calvin starts running up the stairs but his headache stops him halfway between the top and bottom tier.

"Do you know my name?" The old man persists with his voice sounding like his position has changed. Calvin does not want to look behind him, but his curiosity gets the best of him. The old man with black eyes and a nose bleed no longer stands in the hallway. He is now a few steps down from him on the stairway. What stands at the foot of the steps is not a man at all. His feet and legs are that of a goat, with black hoofs and furs of silver and gray. His Pelvis, belly and chest are that of an old man who stays in shape. He is muscular, without clothes and without anything to define his gender. His neck is curled to the front of his body like that of a buzzard. He has black wings coming out of his back that look dingy and broken. His head is the skull of an Ox without horns or the black eyes he saw before.

"Do you know my name?" says the creature with a voice far different than that of the old man that was.

"We both know that if I say your name it will give you power" finally answers the boy, before he finishes running up the steps. He runs into the bathroom which is the first room at the top of the steps. No quicker than he can start closing the door, he sees the creature floating up the staircase. He slams the door and presses the button lock inside of its handle. No sooner than he does this, he hears the creatures voice through the door.

"If you truly know who I am, then you know this door cannot keep me from entering" says the creature in a voice that sounds like it is on Calvin's side of the door.

"You fascinate me Calvin... I don't want to harm you, I just want to talk to you"

Calvin's not sure if he's speaking the truth. But he is sure that it will be hours before anyone comes back. His eyes can see clearly now, without any pain. His head is still killing him, but not as much as before. So he knows he is on the right path. He turns his back to the door and slides down until he is sitting in the same fetal position he was in downstairs. Then Calvin answers the creature on the other side of the door...

"And what is it you want to talk about?"

Dazed and Confused... #Poetry Guest Blog by Byron Walter.

Dazed and Confused

Understand when I speak, that I'm just a realist, relaying poetic images from a broken society that's in front of me.

So contradictive gimmicks won't be portrayed or defined as the mold of me.

See I come from humble beginnings so understand that I don't believe in the false concept of flash.

Nor will my lines provide lies about SWAGG, blowing money fast, (excuse my French) or how my "bitch" resembles a money bag.

I believe that's the logic that weakens our community’s unity and keeps us detached.

So for my own personal growth, I try to position myself away from that.

At the same time try to open your eyes to see how we're all mentally trapped.

Inside of a world mislead, lost in confusion.

Where negative morals and values are displayed as a positive illusions.

And it dumbs down the thinking of lost souls, believing in false hope as a legitimate solution.

From times that have been, beaten into submission from social contusions.

When honestly the truth is,
most put themselves in these situations believing everything they're told before it's actually shown or proven.

So tell me who is,
Greater than anybody to have their word valued before being tested or even questioned on their motives.

And let's not forget,
that most rumors disappear faster than they are created, so what good is a source if their reliability is always retracted.

With that being said, I don't believe in a revolution and could care less if it will or won't be televised.

Truth is,
it won't matter if we continue to dismantle the perception of ourselves by increasing the ratings of the ignorance they choose to promote and televise.

Or better yet, continue to blindly boast and give praise to the violence going on in the "third world" cities in these states.

Hiding behind the excuse of poverty being the reason that they're just a product of their environment, making it ok that they glorify their own genocide.

And in the meantime, I have to hear another story about a young black man or child dying.

While the news, some of society, and their shooter use those same excuses to justify the homicide.

I say this because I want you to have your own opinion.

Remember this isn't to ridicule, just an interlude used to riddle you.

Examples used, to advise your eyes to open wide better on what should interest you.

Instead of propaganda rendering you dazed and confused.

- Byron Walter.

The Aphrodisiac of Power / Volume II

She was looking for a thug and she found one/

Amazed at how quickly her toes pointed to the ceiling above his bed/

Or should I say HER bed since she paid for it and he never gave her the money back like he said he would/

She was on his layaway plan/ laying a way he liked/ laying a way that pleased him and him only him/

Laying a way her life to a man who was so unworthy he almost didn't get this verse/

The type of cat to lay naked wearing socks and jewelry/ believes in Tom foolery/ and is nothing new to you and me/

Mediocre is his spirit/ the frame of a warrior but the passion of too much NyQuil and Benadryl/

Only good at sleeping… with her… although his eyes are always open/

Looking at everything on her body that bounces when her head is buried in the pillows and her ass is raised/

Her hair is getting pulled from the roots forcing her back to arch/

Her honey dripping down the back of her legs/ ripe and ready target waiting to be hit and never waits long/

Constantly pounded by injections of narcissism/ her self-esteem split like a melon on a hot summer’s day/

Her innocence tastes like sun kissed sugars to his negative palate/

She was looking for a thug and she found him/

Her body aches blinded by her ideals of masculinity/

Man is more than his physical abilities/

With every nut that drips out of her canal she slowly realizes that fact/

No conversation/

No emotions/

No connections/

Just erections/ stuffed inside places she’d never been fucked before/

Raw/ for many hours and a few encores/

Until of course when she asked for more/

and he hit the door/

GB