An Introduction of the Poet

He calls forth words
Like color palettes
And the whole world
Is his canvas

His pen is sharp
Like a Samurai sword
And he would sooner commit hara-kiri
Than give in to writer’s block

The block jumps up for him
He’s got that hip hop mentality
(some of y’all call it def)
And he represents the hood
To the fullest

He’s the slickest MC when he wants to be
He can turn lyrics to gold so he don’t spit for free
His number one concern is keepin’ it real, you see
He’ll never Uncle Tom, in fact sometimes he feels like Simon Legree

Waxing prophetic
Like a ghetto Angel Moroni
His golden tablet is any scrap piece of paper he can find
And he and his Dixon Ticonderoga are intimate
Like a junkie and his needle

See writing is his drug
And it takes him far away from here.

Only in graphite worlds
Are sirens silenced by the serenade of seven-year-olds
Secure in nuclear families
He knows that lead is faster than a bullet
And funerals bow down to erasers

His society does not have gravity
(that shit weighs you down)
He used to be jealous of birds because God didn’t give him wings
So now he flies over mountains one stanza at a time.

In free verse or in rhyme
He’s a bad motherf—.

Yes.

Oh and his creations are epic
Conjuring the ghosts of poets past
Locked in literary love with Gwendolyn Brooks
And Paul Lawrence Dunbar

One bar at a time
He is singing for black folk
Po’ folk
His kinfolk

Singing their lives with his words
And he is killin’ it.

Yes.

He is the street preacher
And hip hop is the Fifth Great Awakening.

In his church Puritans are not welcome
But charlatans most certainly are
A home for tricksters
Hustlers
Single mothers
His deacons are those that pimp hoes and
Pimp prose
You don’t have to pass the plate
He takes his cover at the door

Yeah you know who it is!

He’s a little boy
In a big man’s body
Tired of running from bullies
Tired of watching his mama struggle.

Committed to the struggle.

He’s a soldier in the proletariat army
Living in a studio apartment
Trying to be outside the box

He’s a guardian of
A powder keg
Just waiting for his opportunity to blow up.

The sky is not the limit for him
The page is.

All he has to do
Is grab his Dixon Ticonderoga
And re-up
And just that quick
like a drug now he’s high
Just that quick
like a bird now he’s high
Just that quick
there’s one more mountain over which to fly.

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