Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
Palm trees now
burn green in my dreams,
power lines lay
there when I wake.
The path crumbles before me,
our (people) stumble; poorly
paved streets and hills that exclude
we.
Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
The path flows from our feet.
(people) crow at our defeat; families
repave streets on
mounts (that seek) true peace.
Say you’re God and
no one cares, but
you can’t be king of
New York. Rhymes
are bars, so
many say. No
other way, the
TV say, so our
language all locked
up. Our slang not
even pidgin; our
words nothing but rust.
Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
Miley must
twerk before we
make it to Oxford. LOL,
smiley faces all there. Where
is our hold, our
control of our words? Where
is Hip-Hop in the movements,
an international culture promoted
from, imprisoned in the
land of liberty.
The last time we
made history here
was when Obama
won, and that
was war, one we’re
still fighting.
Sometimes I tell
tales with alcohol’s
tears. My fate in mirrors,
face in beers. I fear, at
moments, more than
I can bear. My pulse
pounds so hard the
(world) (around) throbs.
I Tumbl asleep and
the palm trees still
burned, the oak and pine
plants aflame too. In nightmares I am
falling, endlessly, from
telephone poles and traffic
lights, grasping at darkness, waiting
for the (impact)
to (end) the fear, the
sinking feeling of future death and failure. When awake, I am immune to the silence, still listening for the crickets crooning through the night,
ad-libbing their ballads
of rebirth.
Palm trees now
burn green in my dreams,
power lines lay
there when I wake.
Hard for us to
grasp how we’re
all victims of
a system; indifferent
toward a spirit.
I am working so
(hard) to inspire
change. To incite
rebellion, do
away with pain.
All of life is
temporary. Why live
in safety? Why be
wary? Do
something different;
something daring. The
world is (paring)
away, weight of our
species taring,
but every caring
act resets. When tearing
besets both worlds, this
one will die, but
we’ll live on. In
word, in deed, in
legacy. The
second secret
is not to settle
to sustain.
Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
We sing the same
stories to ourselves and don’t
even support. Shift
the storyboard. Color
the standard. White
boards with markers that
smell of systemic
learning and erase clean.
Chalk on blackboards
leave dust; leave us. So
breathe us. Double consciousness
should never be a
burden, or a (standard),
but a gift. Seal the rift.
Every action is
an answer to Gaia’s
question, every
essence of this
earth a living
creature in a
wall-less room with
you. Make each
move worth the
fate of your world,
each (thought) your
gift. The
third secret is to
inspire rebirth.
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
Palm trees now
burn green in my dreams,
power lines lay
there when I wake.
The path crumbles before me,
our (people) stumble; poorly
paved streets and hills that exclude
we.
Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
The path flows from our feet.
(people) crow at our defeat; families
repave streets on
mounts (that seek) true peace.
Say you’re God and
no one cares, but
you can’t be king of
New York. Rhymes
are bars, so
many say. No
other way, the
TV say, so our
language all locked
up. Our slang not
even pidgin; our
words nothing but rust.
Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
Miley must
twerk before we
make it to Oxford. LOL,
smiley faces all there. Where
is our hold, our
control of our words? Where
is Hip-Hop in the movements,
an international culture promoted
from, imprisoned in the
land of liberty.
The last time we
made history here
was when Obama
won, and that
was war, one we’re
still fighting.
Sometimes I tell
tales with alcohol’s
tears. My fate in mirrors,
face in beers. I fear, at
moments, more than
I can bear. My pulse
pounds so hard the
(world) (around) throbs.
I Tumbl asleep and
the palm trees still
burned, the oak and pine
plants aflame too. In nightmares I am
falling, endlessly, from
telephone poles and traffic
lights, grasping at darkness, waiting
for the (impact)
to (end) the fear, the
sinking feeling of future death and failure. When awake, I am immune to the silence, still listening for the crickets crooning through the night,
ad-libbing their ballads
of rebirth.
Palm trees now
burn green in my dreams,
power lines lay
there when I wake.
Hard for us to
grasp how we’re
all victims of
a system; indifferent
toward a spirit.
I am working so
(hard) to inspire
change. To incite
rebellion, do
away with pain.
All of life is
temporary. Why live
in safety? Why be
wary? Do
something different;
something daring. The
world is (paring)
away, weight of our
species taring,
but every caring
act resets. When tearing
besets both worlds, this
one will die, but
we’ll live on. In
word, in deed, in
legacy. The
second secret
is not to settle
to sustain.
Digital hieroglyphs
gave me these gifts to cope:
a vice to keep me humble,
a dream to (give) me hope.
We sing the same
stories to ourselves and don’t
even support. Shift
the storyboard. Color
the standard. White
boards with markers that
smell of systemic
learning and erase clean.
Chalk on blackboards
leave dust; leave us. So
breathe us. Double consciousness
should never be a
burden, or a (standard),
but a gift. Seal the rift.
Every action is
an answer to Gaia’s
question, every
essence of this
earth a living
creature in a
wall-less room with
you. Make each
move worth the
fate of your world,
each (thought) your
gift. The
third secret is to
inspire rebirth.
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