Us Girls

Here is a recent poem I wrote.

Us Girls


We so fly. Our groupies have groupies,
Those Girls that wanna be like Us Girls.
Us Girls who talk fast, and switch hips
face made up, and caked up with makeup
at fifteen, they say our heel game look mean.
Meaner than those videos vixens,
as we got bigger fish to fry,
why waste days in class when
older hustla' be checkin out
our asses so Phat.
Us girl rock Baby Phat,
and fake Louie purses
memorize Lil Kim verses
otha' than humming
Nina Simone melodies.
we gonna be one of those
four women we will never
hear about, nor care to know about.
while most will call us
her name, wisphers and moans
of, "oh Sweet Thang,
I love you so...."
Us Girls is for daddies of all kind.
as long as they the type
of daddies that be Buyin
Us Girls like Girls like Us
to touch and let our
sexy Yung Thug Hustla watch,
and join us, as long as it gets us a
lil mo' of what Those Girls
who ain't us got.
Us Girls can't understand whats wrong with
those silly ones who don't
want what we got but search for
something otha' than green or
things that are So Icey,
to Us Girls, Them Girls don't exists.
Us Girls got dreams
to be in King magazine
cause we was told smart
women have goals,
and We smart enuff to
know that we mature at
fifteen years old,
cause some older boy said so.
and Our bodies is looking so Whoa!,
just like dem chicks that are models.
And they say we Thick in all
the right places, enuff to be models.
as Us Girls got dreams, cause they
say women needs her dreams
and we women enuff to know
that aint nothing wrong with sliding
down glitter poles, as
some boy said we could,
cause We more mature than most
of the older women they know.
Us Girls are Independant and do whatever
we please, as we know everything
as some man pretendin boy say we can
and we believe everything he gon say to us.
cause Us Girls is fifteen,
and stuck inside a Video World
all we want to be is just another one of them
Money takin, Money makin, Pimpin Dollars, Freak in the Bed,
Down Ass Chick, that every guy wants on his team as his
number One, we gon be that type of Us Girls
cause Us Girls smart enough to know we gonna need to
have us a realistic Dream that can fit inside a T.V. Screen.

for J. Dilla

The Perfect Beat

that's what masterminds do,

get caught up with addictions
to creating masterpieces.

and soon find themselves falling
in love with something beautiful.
in search of a balance between
the pure raw, and the harmony.
rhythms classicals enough to
outlast the lifetimes.

so it's no suprises that constantly
I seem to find myself in loops.
re-surfaced deja vu's,
while listening to a hot piece.

as that's what genius's crave,

the type of work that becomes
the scores people grow their lives to.
soundtracks produce fresh
with the smell of everyday grind,
sound so remarkable they
evolve into lifelines.

songs fossilized into my mind
strong enough to stir up memories
as I choose to play them
continous on repeat.

eternity comes forever through
the spirit of the melodies
as with the play of
each hook, riff, and loop
caught up in positive harmony

we listen closely as
you soul shines,
hoping to catch a feeling of
your sunshine,
grabbing handfuls of your memory
as it slip through the
reflection of each flawless piece

I alway catch myself wondering,
"damn, who perfected the beat?"




(p.s...
to Dilla with luv.)
r.i.p

Surrendering

Surrendering


it could have happened anywhere
maybe perhaps even on
a busy crowded
downtown street
while on a corner
waiting for the
street lights to flash walk.
or perhaps in a quiet
bookstore separated
by a shelve of books
packed tightly on a
oak wood frame.
a likely potent
passing might
brew in a grocery store line,
waiting behind
the woman counting
out two dollars
worth, of pennies,
for two soda's
one hers, the other
for a small grandson,
both just wanting to
share a moment together.
or the chance of a
possible proximity
of back turn towards back
in a little coffee shop,
sipping frappuccinos
simultaneously browsing
the new yorker or
wall street journal
might have been the
scene for the plot.
a stare could employ
overlapped lives,
as a smile proposes
gesture of marriage.
formal meetings
come coincidental,
familiarity eases eyes.
inverted awareness
brings buried,
yet unintentional
supple soul kisses,
seize equivalent
accidental touches.
conversations
begin to take shape,
fighting against the
body's solitary,
my heart is a dictatorship,
so selfish
when it comes to
sharing my soul,
I prefer to have myself,
single in a shelter shell,
all to my own.
while,
you’re so militant,
always fighting
against heart's
lonely happiness
ignoring the single man's
worry free baggage less
contentment.
it could have happen anywhere,
during movies, sporting events
club scenes, concerts,
such tight spaces where
people seem to
become jammed packed.
amalgamated, melted pots
of large groups.
of course throughout the world,
we'd share
numerous fate bending encounters,
of course we both knew,
one day,
orbital roads would cross paths,
so suddenly we clashed.
purposely pretending you didn't
mean to mindlessly
bump into my agenda.
caught up in your beauty,
it should only be natural that,
only you could
knock me off my feet.
needing balance, your strong
shoulders I'd grasp
to keep
from falling behind,
pushing to stay afloat
inside a busy line.
you counteract,
offer a friendly hand,
touch the lower
part of my back,
produce comfort in
movement through a
crowded path.
these advances,
your eye's glances
plot ideals to conduct
uprising and definite
attitude towards solitude,
the will of our bodies
too close together
in breathless rooms,
aid the revolution,
fight against freedom
blossoms harvest and
the next movement.