This Poem.

This is a poen that might make you cry-or is it? Could be the story of a guy who feels stuck in the muck of yuck and don't know why? This poem is about a man who wished he could fly-I used to dream about being Superman, that I was impervious and built to withstand the tumult. Instead, I've felt life has been a continual assault on my senses. This poem is about a man who thought he was gifted, but spent more time artificially lifting himself to what he thought was bliss-when, in fact, it was an attack on his mental and spiritual faculties. Brown liquor pulling him away from the glory of a new day. This poem is about the loss of connection his forebears gave their lives for..about one door closing, another one opening, and me closing it before I can see what's inside. The story of a man with a little boy in him who is scared so he runs and hides in a bottle of suds where peace resides; or at least he thinks, to himself. This poem's about a soloist, who been dolo since he can remember; an isolationist plagued with distopic memories of Septembers past. A poem about a man who cries often because he empathizes with humanity; the same poem's about a man who has been trained to focus on the stain of his own vanity. Selfish. Rude. The story of a brother who wishes he was a different dude, whose artistic moods could be construed as depression, anger and aggression. A poem about a cat who has not learned his lesson. Perhaps it's his own pain from which he thrives, maybe his fuckups allow him to feel alive. Nah. Bullshit! That's jive- talk; this poem's about a man who wishes he could walk in another direction, but there's no map so he feels lost. Raised himself to be the boss of his own life, and failing miserably at it. This poem's about YOU or ME or ALL of US Damn it...

The Last Old New Yorker: Old New Yorkers Are World Wide

The Last Old New Yorker: Old New Yorkers Are World Wide

Sleeping on Project benches, scared and wondering if this cat who woke me up is going to rob me. Sob, woe is me, I'm homeless and thirty three-no thirty four. Today is my birthday mama, but I know that you know this already, 'cause you're steady perched on your cloud in Heaven. I need to believe this, our struggles so seamless-ly unfolds. I'm writing my story as a poem that has not been told, or recited, borrowed from , or bited. And, I so know that's not a word, but my situation absolutely deserves something else. I fancy myself a poet who for a great many years didn't know it. I'm sitting here on this project bench, tired and hungry, waiting for the dawn of a new day to say to me: You made it through last night, you're a warrior and your plight will not go unrecognized by the power which governs the Universe. I spit a verse to soothe me because I'm scared and stressed out; almost certain but there's still doubt as to whether I'll actually succeed and become the man I'm supposed to be. Someone told me speak victory, my reality's a bitch to me. Constant. I have a five year old daughter and I'm experiencing this nonsense. Where do I go from here? could cripple myself through fear and end up a carbon copy of my worst nightmare. I fight , there's a reason I'm still here, as the seasons continue to gray my hair. I'm still young, I'm still dope boy fresh, aren't I? But I never sold dope, maybe I should make me a few stacks, bubble in some 'hood. Whoop, Whoop! Now I'm someone's statistic. Trying to feed my family. Realistically I know I can't sell drugs, I'm too old to be cookin' and lookin' out for po po. So I write on this project bench in hopes that one day I won't have to live from Monday through Sunday on someone's couch or in the park. I have big dreams and a plan to stand on my own too. Big things are in store for me. I'm Big Meach of this bench, and everyday I move closer, if just an inch, it's still forward. My glass is half full, so I drink from that pool. It's not polluted, poisoned, or diluted. It's pure. It's my drive to survive, persist, carry on, remain alive. It's my human spirit, which is good like my creator, and he endowed me with the ability to change all of this. So fuck the haters and naysayers, from this project bench I am still a major player in the game of life.

I am a dynamic individual, I'll write a verse and disperse lyrical darts without the aide of profanity. I love the guy that I see when I look in the mirror and that's not vanity. I love my daughter too and her mama, but I can't stand beefin' I don't like drama. I believe in Karma and what you put out there the Universe gives you back. Sometimes my thoughts are destructive like the copious consumption of crack. I enjoy sex with liberatedly loose women whose intelligence is equally as evident as mine. I'm about something, forward motion, if she's not I don't waste my time. I admire beauty in all forms, and don't necessarily subscribe to social norms. I love Hip Hop, especially the underground kind, I find that more thought is given to constructing those rhymes. Different themes are explored, numerous subjects discussed, as opposed to tales of urban decay and the guns cats bus'. Speaking of busts, I also have issues with lust, shorties often catch me leering at them, some respond with genuine interest others react in disgust. To each his own, this world I'll roam, who knows I might just set up shop next to the Pope's home in Rome Italy, with a pretty lil' Italian shorty named Sicily. I'm dope like blue magic and comic but not tragic, I have a great sense of humor and style that's mad classic. I'm fantastic! Okay, back down to earth, I have to remember to humble myself I'm a Leo by birth and I realize my worth, that's why being broke it hurts. However, I'll never forsake my royal roots and feel like a king even with holes in my boots. I make the money, the doesn't make me, it never has. Frankly, I'm the hottest to hit any scene since Drake the bearer of melodically poetic aesthetics whose words are medicinally prophetic-I let it flow through me. I am merely a vessel, the Universe uses me, my pen's my jewelery, my armor and tools. You see, writing is a release for me, a taming of the beast in me, without it I would cease to be. I am a writer, who I am is an ever evolving being who's open to new ways of seeing, like 3DHD with utter and complete clarity. Pristine transparency, I'm not hiding, I'm riding my skateboard through urban municipalities while listening to the first Mobb Deep album, and popping complicated tricks. That's what I do, I'm that cool-in my mind. I'm dope like blue magic.

How many of us have been abused by adults? I know I'm not the only one who has cried out for help. Too young to help myself, too scared to protect myself. This shit was real, maybe it was the initial abuse that made me not want to feel anymore. My emotions were raw, I wanted to become numb. They tried to steal my innocence, and in a sense they did. I was a depressed and sad kid who's dad hid from his responsibilites, in fected by the pathogenic qualities of homelessness, hunger, and poverty. I watched as my mother sank into the murky depths of depression, while I played out my addiction through the artistic expression of my agression known as graffitti. I stole spray paint and wrote my name wherever you could see me. I felt invisible but became visible through aerosol tags and throwups. I rebelled, I showed those grownups what they could do with themselves. You see, if they didn't give a fuck then how was I suppose to care for me? I didn't. I did what I wanted, I smoked blunts, dranks 40's , and went on the hunt for pussy from shorties who were just as emotionally twisted as I, that was a piece of my high. I got caught writing, shipped to Spotford, nail biting, I was a nervous wreak. Lived in a group home after that, then released back to the streets with no direction, no map to follow, no rolls to model. I felt like an outcast, trapped in the extraordinary confines of my youth at the time. If the behavior was negative I was engaged, that was how I channelled my rage. Years before my introduction of pen to page, I acted out my life on a dangerous and uncertain stage. My juvenile delinquent phase was colored with anger and hopelessness and I wanted to escape my reality. The duality was that I also wanted to live a different existance, as the forces of my personal destruction remained persistant, and I couldn't see my future. The distance was so vast as to cloud my vision of it. Decisions, or, rather, a series of bad choices embarrassments, and situations I would have preferred to avoid, as the smoke from the herb fills my lungs, travels to my brain, making me paranoid. To fill a void, I drank and developed a deep relationship with a girl I met in Washington Heights. She wasn't Dominican, she was white and we'd go skiing together every other night....

A Letter To My Father conitnued

I loved you man, still do. I don't think you knew just how great I thought you were. You were daddy, I viewed you as godlike. Man I thought you were cool, you were beautiful to Misterman and me. Your voice was so deep, and you were so strong; you used to do push ups with me on your back. I've been told that I sound like you, that I look like you, that I even gesticulate like you. You were better than Superman to me, you were my father. I to used love riding on your shoulders. Chloe loves to get on my shoulders, whenever she's up there I think of you. When I take her to the movies, I think of you, the amusement park, the beach, the playground, I think of you. You broke my little heart, you broke a few little hearts. Where have you been man?...

A Letter To My Father

" Daddy?" " Daddy? " That's not me calling out to you, that's my little girl calling me, her father. You now have a granddaughter whom you've never met. Her name is Chloe, and she's an amazingly beautiful addition to my my life. Ocassionally she'll ask me about you, and I actually dread when this occurs because I don't have much to tell her, except what I remember about you, which isn't much. If ever there were a time in which I could seriously use some fatherly advice, that time would be now. You have a granddaughter, a granddaughter, and she is the most magnificent little person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, let alone rearing. You haven't the slightest idea whom this precious little wonder is. Her name is Chloe, and she thinks I'm the greatest person on this earth. She's four, and, in the opinion of many, she resembles me a great deal; which means she looks like you.

Where have you been man? My brother and I have been out here in this world and have, for the most part, fended for ourselves. Chrismin was overwhelmed. What an immense responsibilty, raising two boys by her herself. She tried, but essentially, we raised ourselves Tommy. What happened to you? I wish you could feel how this has impacted our lives: I am a man, who was raised to be so without a paradigm to emulate. Simple shit, Tommy, like learning how to tie a tie, or shave, I had to teach myself. It hurts me that I didn't have you to teach me these things. I'm still teaching myself, every day, what it means to be a man.

33 Tommy, That's how old I am, Your youngest is 30. I'm not trying to make you feel bad for not taking care of us, I just wish that upon reading this missive, you would try to reintroduce yourself to us. Mom's past on, my brother and me are still here. We're still here man. Where have you been Tommy? Have you any idea of how tough life has been for us? I wonder if you're still alive...