This is freedom' s essence,
life represented by a concept,
the reaches over seas,
that breaches eternity,
that once, my people
could never reach.
I can hear freedom cry
out to me, powerful,
stout, and unwavering,
"be the voice of a generation"
Who knew freedom could dream,
for it dreams a dream for all
who gave their lives for
the struggle.
This struggle defines my character,
OUR character, lifted up
by the difficulties that once
brought down our ancestors,
empowered by the words
that once were used to
abuse our people,
we survived,
we lived,
we had that gas mask
when they tried to snuff us out
with their hate.
And now I, too, have that
gas mask,
and now realize that
I am freedom,
and freedom
is me.
CopyRight 2012 | Robert Drake
Monday, March 26, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
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POETRY: 'Untold' by Robert Drake
Those stories about him,
I wonder if they were true.
Fallen angel, lonely soldier,
sole survivor.
Enchained to the streets,
he fell in love with the game.
She had crack pipes for lungs,
HIV eyes, syringes
occupied her fingertips, she wore
the smell of blood as her perfume
because it entices him so.
Her bottle pop legs, complimented by
the clothes she would wear;
stripped from the backs off men
who she once lured but now denied.
Her eyes glow green with the logo
of our dreams
because she had an obscene
obsessed for all rings.
He would poison his neighborhood
to buy her the bling, he would flood
the scene with C’s just to
drink the tears from her eyes.
She would make him cool
even teach him how to fly
if his engines ever stall and he plummets from
the sky.
For he loved her, he had no choice
bound by the promises
sealed tight by
the bottle caps in her voice,
the easy way out,
he took the back door,
and got married in an alleyway.
She was his Queen and he was her
King, and so began their rain,
in the form of acid.
Slowly killing off
the vagrants of society, they were
powerful,
Drinking from the veins of the
deceased they were vampiric,
spreading disease in the air of
their aura, they were contagion.
She made him powerful,
she made him cool,
she made sure he would only
feel pleasure, and no more
pain, forevermore.
I would often wonder
who these people were,
if they were people at all.
The tales of The Streets always
lulled me to sleep.
Once I did
I would see the logos of our dreams
and be Cool, forever.
I wonder if they were true.
Fallen angel, lonely soldier,
sole survivor.
Enchained to the streets,
he fell in love with the game.
She had crack pipes for lungs,
HIV eyes, syringes
occupied her fingertips, she wore
the smell of blood as her perfume
because it entices him so.
Her bottle pop legs, complimented by
the clothes she would wear;
stripped from the backs off men
who she once lured but now denied.
Her eyes glow green with the logo
of our dreams
because she had an obscene
obsessed for all rings.
He would poison his neighborhood
to buy her the bling, he would flood
the scene with C’s just to
drink the tears from her eyes.
She would make him cool
even teach him how to fly
if his engines ever stall and he plummets from
the sky.
For he loved her, he had no choice
bound by the promises
sealed tight by
the bottle caps in her voice,
the easy way out,
he took the back door,
and got married in an alleyway.
She was his Queen and he was her
King, and so began their rain,
in the form of acid.
Slowly killing off
the vagrants of society, they were
powerful,
Drinking from the veins of the
deceased they were vampiric,
spreading disease in the air of
their aura, they were contagion.
She made him powerful,
she made him cool,
she made sure he would only
feel pleasure, and no more
pain, forevermore.
I would often wonder
who these people were,
if they were people at all.
The tales of The Streets always
lulled me to sleep.
Once I did
I would see the logos of our dreams
and be Cool, forever.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
POETRY: 'My Perspective' by Kabriel Moorehead
My Perspective
By Kabriel Moorehead
A over generalized generation
Full of misfits is how we are viewed
Unsure of our steps
As we cautiously walk towards the future
Hoping that the stars align
In a way that will guide us to our destiny
Or at least that's the story
The world wants to hear
In all actuality
We are painters making wild strokes
On a empty canvas called Tomorrow
Unknowingly creating a masterpiece
That will ring down through the ages
As man kinds true potential
Copyright 2012|Kabriel Moorehead
By Kabriel Moorehead
A over generalized generation
Full of misfits is how we are viewed
Unsure of our steps
As we cautiously walk towards the future
Hoping that the stars align
In a way that will guide us to our destiny
Or at least that's the story
The world wants to hear
In all actuality
We are painters making wild strokes
On a empty canvas called Tomorrow
Unknowingly creating a masterpiece
That will ring down through the ages
As man kinds true potential
Copyright 2012|Kabriel Moorehead
Saturday, March 3, 2012
POETRY: 'The Bird's Song' by Ana Hagins
I’ve heard stories
about them.
About how things
were back then…
They use to sing
songs about tomorrow
even though there
was no guarantee they would see the sun go down.
They sung about the
future because it was the only thing of true uncertainty
and to them not
knowing what would be seemed to be the only way to have hope.
I heard about how
they raised their hands
to the heavens in
order to hold on to God’s unchanging hand,
begging for mercy,
pleading for a
savior,
and praying for a
revolution.
Mama’s older mama use tell her
how God always heard the prayers of the oppressed,
and that He always answered,
but on His own time.
My mama use to tell
me
about how one of
her older mamas
sang to everyone
and everything.
She said she use to
sing to the birds and the birds would sing back.
She said her song
went a little something like this:
“Sing me a song of freedom, dear
friend. Tell me, how does it go?
For my soul only knows of
heartaches, anguish, despair and woe.
My voice has grown weary from
hardships and pain.
Give me a new song so I can sing
again.
Sing me a song of freedom, my
friend. Tell me, how does it go?
So we can sing the freedom song ‘bout
this time tomorrow.”
Mama said her older
mama would listen close as the bird would sing:
“Freedom is the simplest song
that anyone has ever heard.
I sing ‘bout it all day long ‘cause
it only has one word.
Freedom, freedom, freedom,
freedom is how my song begins.
And freedom, freedom, freedom,
freedom is how it always ends.
Freedom is the simplest song that
anyone has ever heard.
I sing ‘bout all day long, for
who has more freedom than a bird?”
about how they would meet in the back woods
when it was dark,
wade in the water,
hold hands and just sing.
Crying voices filled
the night
as they talked
about how some glad morning
they all would fly
away.
They sang all night
as if dawn
would be the time
that God turned them to birds.
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