Descriptive Literary Prescriptions

poetry

Solitaires and Interstellar Air

When the light/

reflects off of/

prisms, /

your attention/

gets held in prison./

It’s the same/

when you look up/

at the sky at night./

The glory/

of God is/

whispering;/

hoping your/

optics and ears/

are listening./

Constellations/

shine like clusters/

of diamonds/

around wrists/

that hold time./

Old timers/

rap rhymes/

that wrap

around minds./

Rhyme schemes glisten/

inside the pupils/

of third eyes./

I spit gemstones/

that give symptoms/

of bird eyes./

Insight/

is missing/

from most of these/

rap guys./

They’re headed/

to a pit/

filled with sighs./

Trap guys/

sold snow/

and don ice;/

talking about/

‘turn it’,/

instead of/

talking about/

the dark place/

that’ll burn it./

Hell is hot,/

and it don’t stop./

Lofty/

celebrities/

get more props/

than those/

in places/

heavenly./

Stars rock/

shiny stones./

The lust of bling/

can cause/

stars not/

to have a/

happy home./

We’re starstruck/

by the brilliance/

of a /

vvs’s presence,/

while we’re starstruck/

by the millions/

in a/

millionaire’s possession./

Aw, look,/

a fallen star./

Though we all/

make mistakes,/

the media/

ridicules them [stars]

for how flawed/

they are./

Yet….Stars are/

flawless/

when they/

arrest our attention./

Their value is/

then discounted/

at their arrest/

and detention./

Stars shine/

on Instagram,/

but don’t want/

to shine light/

on topics that/

make a difference./

These/

celebrities,/

well….some,

run/

and/

illuminate/

the/

Illuminati;

attempting to/

take control/

of your mind, soul/

and your body./

Many of them/

choose to use/

their platform/

to broadcast/

the ungodly./

Sorry,/

that’s just how/

I feel near my/

heartbeat./

Real stars/

gain followers,/

too./

Fake ones/

pose in photos/

next to Oscar;/

attempting to/

get their just due./

A testament/

to the Son’s

handiwork./

Solitaires/

in the/

interstellar/

air/

accessorize/

the sky/

and mesmerize/

our eyes./

The pseudo/

stars/

tell lies/

and/

exaggerate/

the truth/

through their lives./

We look at stars/

like diamonds/

occupying/

space up high./

They’re not/

even close./

These/

luminous points/

we can only see/

in detail/

through a/

telescope./

These/

thespians/

can be/

seen/

on tv, movie,/

and iPhone/

screens./

Elizabeth/

Taylor/

did white diamonds/

no favors./

They continue/

to shine,/

even after/

her time./

I write/

about life/

and the Light./

I’m a courtroom/

artist./

My ink smears/

on the hearts/

of the/

hardest./

Now,/

after this bow,/

let’s all rise/

and give honor/

to the One/

who inspired/

the song sung/

by Rihanna./

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Wade

The flow’s colder than Canada./

Spit in your ear canal;/

think of Panamá./

Heavy lyrics/

hit like/

cannonballs/

Useless usage/

will reside/

in your/

neck and arms/

Talk smack/

and you’ll/

respect the palm./

Nah, I’m just/

serious/

but umm…

I pray this/

anger will run/

and keep running/

like a/

marathon/

away/

from my face./

Rage, give me some/

distance./

Give me some/

light years./

Give me some/

space,/

so I can run/

my best race/

without/

carrying the/

properties/

of hate./

Thoughts skydive/

Into the screen/

of this phone./

I freestyle poems/

while brainstorms/

form and soak the/

soil of my lawn./

Repellent

I vomit/

acidic/

linguistics/

from my stomach/

to your/

conscious./

Lyrics/

are so/

disgusting./

Repulsive/

subjects/

cause ulcers./

When I pass gas,/

it’s from what I spat./

My ear drums bang;/

in rhythm with/

my ear wax./

Like an egg/

my head cracks/

and spills/

protein/

through the quill/

or when my/

fingers tap/

the screen/

of my iPhone./

I phone home/

every time/

I release/

the contents/

to God/

from my dome./

As it relates,/

to my poems,/

I hear that/

there are/

so many/

misinterpretations/

that are/

nonadjacent/

to where my/

train of thought/

is racing./

Explain my thoughts./

Annotate/

my state of mind/

when I/

made this rhyme./

I made this slime/

perpendicular/

to my mind./

I clear nasal/

passages,

blaze/

passages/

and move dope lines/

like cocaine/

trafficking./

I Hock a loogie/

with autobiographic/

cinematic/

adjectives./

Like an actor,/

I sit back/

and/

watch my movie./

From a/

higher/

perspective/

I drop dookie/

to make things grow./

People get high/

when things/

seem low./

Take a whiff/

of my cliff/

notes if you/

feel broke./

Life puts/

foots to balls/

like a/

field goal./

I feel cold/

in this world/

I need/

no more samples/

of getting/

trampled/

by boots/

with the steel toes./

I’m vile/

with the wordplay./

With gut/

decisions,/

thoughts get/

disemboweled/

and smeared/

next to vowels./

With verbal/

brass knuckles,/

I punch kids/

with consonants;/

watch them/

bleed from the/

cerebellum./

Not to be/

too suggestive/

but the ink/

is/

excrement/

and the flow/

is repellent./

The Portable Canvas

The pen is a lightning bolt. I’m 5’8 but a lyrical Titan, though. Word to Styles P; These imprisoned thoughts, I got’em under LOX, yo. Escaped death? Yes, I’m blessed. The hip hop Houdini but I rock, though. I was underwater, but I can breathe now. I had to untie my hands to hand autographs to my fans. Ooh Wee’s and Wows I shout as I cool myself with my hand. Under trees and clouds, brainstorms rain on the page

like I was on weed now. But Jesus made me free now. With my head low, I’m watching these Bozos with no flow. Yes, they’re indeed clowns. Under the circus tent, I circumvent traps Satan lays to get me hurt again. I had to find pressurized chambers to release this anger. Under the big top, I concoct plot twists and acts to make you gasp. Watch this.

Piece of a Poem

Read my plight with your eyesight, while I record it firsthand, with the hand on my right./ I left behind rhymes to lead you to the state of my mind./ The content and words give you the street address–right down to the curb;/GPS like. You won’t see BS like what’s on CBS./ Right, this is wrong that I took so long to write my mind and what it’s been on./ Until next time, find a song to sing along ’til I come back with a piece of a poem./

Simple

As I grew up

and learned of

the Man who died

on a

cruca-

fix, life was

so lit.

Rea-

dy to burn

like a

ciga-

rette,

I project-

ed success

in my head.

I regret

that I

took life

for granted.

Yes.

Sometimes

I can’t stand it.

Complex.

Check it out

on newsstands

or being

played by a

blues band.

Instead of

busting rhymes,

they’re

busting nines.

The block

is clearasil.

Back in ‘95,

Pimples, I

was busting mine.

I’m just

dropping off

minerals

to your

mental.

Reminding

everyone

of the

facts of life

and how it

once was so

simple

The Bomb

Respect the/

Adam’s apple,/

Before I/

Thirst and Howl,/

Grab you,

then pop your top/

like Snapple./

I blew up/

like 2 guts/

That consume/

more pop/

Than listeners of/

top 40./

Before I raise/

The roof,/

I tell them/

Thanks for holding/

The top for me./

You motionless/

rock stars bore me./

It’s/

literally/

Poetry/

in motion/

when the pen moves/

up and down/

like the waves/

in the ocean./

I stay/

with the quotes and/

I am/

engaged /

with the smoke./

I’m hotter/

Than lava/

and a freshly/

brewed pot/

of java./

I go off/

like a /

18 year old/

high school grad/

to college,/

obtain knowledge,/

yet can’t/

find a job/

to make dollars/

to pay off/

this car I just/

borrowed./

Of course,/

I graduated./

I received/

accolades/

from peers/

and family/

the day I walked/

Across the stage./

I stumbled/

across my rage,/

and fell/

into hate./

I looked/

in disgrace/

at the face/

I faced everyday/

The same cheekbones/

That’s been around/

Since 1978./

It’s time to/

detonate/

that type/

of thinking/

that’s not great./

Let’s make/

fast construction/

of a weapon/

of mass destruction/

that blows us up/

to space./

Let’s catapult/

each other/

to be elevated/

as NASA spaceships./

Instead of/

having an/

explosive motive,/

let’s bombshell/

hellish behaviors/

back to hell./

Why feel like/

an atom/

amongst Adams/

and Eves?/

I can make the/

same amount/

of cheese as Steve./

Jobs won’t/

define me./

God already/

did that kindly./

Ideas from/

the sky/

drop as/

H-bombs/

and/

give off light/

to third eyesights./

The pen/

and my/

fingertips/

are kamikaze-like/

Suicidal,/

but giving/

my life up/

to Jesus;/

not his rival./

I’m on the way/

to the tomb;/

carrying this/

hand grenade./

I’ve already/

taken out the pin/

KaBoom!!/

Randomly Rambunctious

Imaginative/

words/

make the pen work/

and function./

Haphazard thoughts/

interrupt/

hazardous/

luncheons./

Lunch hall/

rhyme schemes are so/

rambunctious./

Excuse me/

as I/

bogart/

your conscience/

and/

cram bunches/

of quotes/

in your lobes./

I mix soul/

food in honey/

bunches of oats./

This morning’s/

menu:/

fried chicken,/

greens, and orange/

juice./

The ink/

from my pen/

is milk./

I stitch/

colorful words/

in your fabric./

Quilts/

cover your/

madness./

Pen tips/

strike the paper/

like matches./

Flames reflect/

off of pupils./

Brains ingest/

what’s in/

these noodles./

Let me soup up/

your coupe./

The Chef/

Boyardee/

of soliloquies./

They give regards/

to the chef./

“Boy, you are/

tricky.”/

True,/

I’ll pour/

alphabets/

in your soup./

I’m above/

a flying/

falcon’s crest./

Ooh./

I’m just talking/

doo doo./

The rhymes/

are Dixie/

Crystals./

In the night sky,/

my spit twinkles/

like crystals./

View starry nights/

when you gaze/

at what I write./

I recite/

universes/

when I give life/

to written verses./

I print/

what’s indented/

in my heart/

in sentences/

whether in print/

or written/

in cursive./

On touch screens,/

I touch the hearts/

of kings and queens./

I stayed in dirt/

but thanks/

to Jesus,/

I’m still clean./

I played in dirt/

but thanks/

to Jesus,/

I can still gleam./

What’s seen/

isn’t always/

what it seems./

In the desert,/

I can’t get/

caught up/

in the mirage./

No garages/

witnessed,/

yet I transport/

thoughts in/

V12 engines;/

fast and/

furiously/

they crash/

in your system./

Since we’re living/

in a new age,/

let me just say,/

I’ll manslaughter/

your violent/

aura/

and introduce/

you to the Son,/

Father/

and Holy Spirit./

I pray/

that I present/

the Gospel/

in a way/

that I hope he/

gets it./

Nope./

He spit it/

like it was/

’95;/

not like these/

evil clowns–/

Penny Wise./

My brainstorms/

are/

uncontrollable./

The fear/

of natural/

disasters/

is controlling/

your mood./

Disremember/

CNN./

The pen./

should be/

remembered./

I’m collapsing/

trees/

which sprout from/

evil seeds./

I’m making/

sinners yell, ‘Timber!’/

I’m no handy man,/

but I’m good/

with my hands./

Blood, sweat, and tears/

are proof of this/

manual/

labor /

I exert on/

paper./

My earned wage/

will turn today’s/

frowns/

upside down

years later./

I just want to/

create life/

like my Maker;/

sample a beat/

found in a/

moon’s crater;/

spit bars/

to my heart’s beat;/

do favors,/

especially/

those unasked./

Yes sir./

Watch me unmask/

the devil/

um…/

unasked./

Got caught/

in a hungry/

spider’s web/

quicker than/

Comcast./

In this life,/

you only get/

one pass./

Day or night,/

I’ve flung shapely/

objects/

at your noggin/

like Tom Brady./

Catch this./

Bullets/

I spit/

from the/

pulpit./

I’m off safety./

No Rugers./

I only shoot/

from my/

soup coolers—/

hotness./

Satan said,/

“Living righteous/

is/

monotonous./

Get some more/

mild blacks./

Nobody’s/

stopping us.”/

I’m just/

hitching a ride/

on Jesus’ back/

to that/

heavenly/

metropolis./

I need/

to practice/

spotting trouble/

without/

binoculars./

Blind walks/

in the park/

ought to spark/

me to spot/

evil cops/

and the/

apocalypse./

I’m dropping gems/

in and around/

your brain stem./

It’s almost like/

I robbed/

a bank and then/

broke in your/

memory bank/

and went/

H.A.M. on your RAM/

and/

installed unplanned/

spam from my hand./

Not in a/

sexual way,/

but if you’re/

in a dry place/

and your progress/

is a vegetable/

state,/

lubricant/

lyrics/

create an/

exuberant/

experience./

The pen/

is an/

irregular/

scepter,/

sometimes/

difficult/

to handle,/

yet it hands/

out light/

in dark rooms/

like a candle./

The Tundra in my Palm Conundrum

In the snow/

I’m delivering/

cold quotes/

that’s shivering/

your soul./

A composer/

of cold notes./

Never sold snow,/

but in the polar,/

I knew those/

who made/

this freezing/

world colder;/

ferocious folks/

who would/

bear arms/

to do harm;/

carrying/

around death/

with their odor./

For those/

who wanted/

to get high,/

they sold life’s/

lows to./

I hung around/

like/

winter coats do/

in July./

But back then/

I wasn’t/

living life like/

I was supposes to./

I was/

on my way/

to hell;

drinking/

a cold soda/

before I moved/

near Minnesota./

All of this was/

during the/

season that’s/

colder/

than the fall./

Duck from this slug./

Shoot, y’all./

I shoot your crews’/

like/

Lebron James/

shoots two’s./

Threes fall too./

College athletics/

increased my teeth’s/

strength to be/

brownish-yellow./

Yet,/

the devil/

makes me blue./

Word to Duke./

I shoot lyrics/

at dudes/

like I got/

John Wayne’s juice./

In the sense/

of a western,/

when I/

draw my pen/

it’s a weapon./

I’ll knock/

your fitted cap off/

with these/

airborne/

lyrics I blast off./

Kill you/

in cold blood/

with the mask off./

Know what’s/

in my dome,/

by the content/

in these poems./

But my/

identity/

is quite/

anonymous./

The flow/

is quite/

synonymous/

with vomit./

I know./

It makes you sick/

to your stomach./

Oh,/

I have a cold,/

so/

cold hard facts/

I “a’chu”/

at you./

The spit/

that I spit/

turns to/

icicles,/

pierce your/

eardrums/

and put/

life in you./

Here’s some soulfood/

for you to chew./

Fried chicken/

goes good/

with this cold/

sweet tea/

that I speak;/

I’m chill/

with or without/

the pill./

With the quill/

I feel like/

Zeus/

holding onto/

lightning;/

striking/

mentalities/

the size/

of titans./

There’s no rapper/

out here/

that you can/

liken/

to my writing./

It’s like/

comparing a/

chihuahua/

to a lycan./

Within the light/

of a full moon,/

I’m plotting/

on the next/

person I’ll be/

biting./

Jack Frost/

biting/

at noses,/

while I/

compose this/

bait your ears/

can’t escape./

Lyrics are golden/

and the flow/

is frozen;/

stuck/

to your mental/

like a/

traumatic/

moment./

A hero/

to Sub Zero,/

just in case/

you haven’t/

noticed./

I kombat/

immortals

behind closed doors/

and out/

in the open./

The touchscreen’s/

swollen;/

getting beat up/

from what my/

imagination’s/

throwin’./

Metaphorical/

punches/

getting lunged/

at your/

conscience/

every time/

you read my/

spirit’s comments./

I’m pretty/

reclusive,/

but I come with/

lyrics/

as promised./

Like a wizard,/

I waive my hands,/

then BAM!/

There’s a blizzard;/

slicing up these/

ice cold loaves/

for your soul./

Edward Scissor/

hands/

this work of art/

to your first,/

second, and third,/

eye./

I hope you/

took my inner/

vision to heart./

Lyrics are/

ever-present;/

saw some/

presidents./

See you a few/

weeks before/

January/

starts./

Untitled IV I

Footnotes I wrote will make your hands clap,/  as my mind floats around the idea of how to make these bands snap./  Looking for money, like an animated bear looks for honey./  If the paper was a circus, I’m clowning these nouns./  But the content found ain’t funny style./  Unorthodox at how I form these thoughts./ Commonly, the paper used to laugh at my lack of creation./  Watch out.  I’m looking at the clock./  Watch how I come back with a vengeance on this sentence./ I know…  it’s sensless./ Which is why I’m taking a census/ of the paper population./  Yet, it’s so many electronic devices being created./Either way, catch what I spit with your face.  No disrespect.  If you want, I can shoot lead at your head; inject ink to where you think–quicker than an  eye blink./ Now, I got you hooked.  Made you look/ at a post I composed on Facebook./  This soulfood, I know, it tastes so good./  Rappers with materalistic lyrics claim they’re so hood./  Give them the Gospel instead of giving them the blues;/rubbing short term riches in their face ’cause they ain’t got Red bottom shoes./  You fool!  I thought we went back like the days we were in school./  You may want to diminish my accomplishments but you can’t relinquish my penmanship or consciousness./  I stay woke like insomnia,/  while others sleep on me like an air mattress./  Chopping up dope  lines–Colombia./  Ski on these mountainous words I write or speak./ You, and a part of me, want me to go downhill to chill, before I reach my peak./  Ay. Why are you trying to do me like that, B./  See, I’m just spreading the Christian religion for a living./  Words of thought become works of art./  An art gallery is what I’m presenting./  Written sentences exhibit hidden opinions/ of the artist formerly called sinner./   In this lost world, we eventually discover we’re winners./  I pray we realize that before the sun goes down.  Hopefully, we make it home before dinner;/ before the beast comes out to eat,/ and our lives are finished./  Here’s one of many memoirs I leave behind for the ear of an unnamed apprentice./  Associate my words with a game of word association.  This is oral hygiene.  Call me a dentist./  These morals I scream give clear vision like Visine./  Intoxicating words is what I lean/ on.  Conveying God’s messages is the soundtrack to my life’s theme song./  What’s left of this inward feeling must be right, ’cause my own self won’t leave me alone./  Left to my own vices, I get enticed when I feel I have a license to act opposite of when my lips were light skinned./ Wrongs, I write them.  Before I went left, I was right then./  Before idols were rivals and lied to me about my title, God was my Titan.  With these rhymes, I’m at the line just practicing some free throws./  They peeped the routine.  Now they think they’re the designer of my genes./  Beneath the dirt stains in these denims,/ lies the durability of a ninety year old living/ being who’s only reading what his soul is spitting./ Rooted in dirt like racism, I’ve been here longer than Thanksgiving./  I blow fire as it snows./  You melt away months after Christmas./  Why are you sprinting in a race that’s long distance?/  With praise, I’m just trying to end every page with an exclamation point in a book that’s been long written./  Insanity is the current state of where my decision making borders./How befitting that my flesh is flipping double sided quarters while my pay phone’s out of order./ What’s going on?  It’s out of order when disrespect is respected./  I’ve been feeding my malnutritioned expression with life lessons.  Misinterpreted jokes have me sadder than most./  I take humor serious.  Comically, I’m a stand-up serial killer.  I ain’t happy ’til I see everyone choke/ off of literal experiences or the ones my imagination evokes./Threaten me with seeds dropped from your family tree, but I’m going to be me, unapologetically, until my eyes close./  Plus, you better be worried about damage control if I explode./  Don’t mind me as I detonate brilliance or a resemblance of rage in your face./  A silent assassin who’s silently practicing stabbing your ear drums while you’re jaw jacking./  Pardon the interruption, but I’m packing raw rhymes in these paws of mine./  My bark runs cats up bark./  My bite marks leave flesh wounds that’ll accompany you to your tomb./  I spit like K-9’s foaming at the mouth; drooling a pool of game in your brain./  Words roam in your domain.  Dream about my dreams.  It smells like teen spirit–Kurt Cobain.  These poems are the bomb–BANG!/  Hot words are fueled by propane./  Mushroom clouds I exhale./  Yeah, I’m just trying to avoid jail and hell./  Well, I’m also avoiding uphill balances in the mail./  Life inspires the pen, Yet my penmanship is inspired by the Wind./  I read that Jesus’ red blood blew my sins away./  Why be blue when the skies are gray./ The Son’s still out.  Here’s some shades./  This nomadic lyrical content is all over the place./

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