7 December 2009
He cut a disconsolate figure, proud black felt like a silhouette,
He’d once stood like a minaret, dressed minds like vinaigrette, yet he got tossed like salad and got smoked like a cigarette
Everybody called him Nicorette, his hope came and stayed in patches
He never lost his fire to inspire, in spite of job matches that didn’t see him as a catch
His
Mind never dropped the ball
Head was a whirlpool of hard falls, and big walls
Glass ceilings and doors, familial wars and sores from the pores opened up through feelings of being poor.
December 8, 2009
Felt like every time he tried to work the magic his electricity attracted energies that made him static not ecstatic
He wanted to be ex static using his laboured fruits to gain current, stay current, never need to be a feign lover, always a main lover, man you had love for
Big Brother, future husband, the brightened son that eclipsed the moon and made her beautiful
Inside he stayed truthful like the ocean knowing she will never be a dry mass
He took another class to be class, never cut class as while steadily defining his shape
He was blooming late photosynthesis took place at sunset,
The power of his flower was not enough he needed a run & gun threat
Less heart more head, of logic he was the balanced vet in the game
Politics was a sweet science like boxing yet he fought at range
His jabs hit veins but rarely drew blood,
He was an artist that couldn’t always harness his true love
