Dear Self,
On the day I die, I imagine there will be many mixed feelings about the event. Death - Now there's a bankruptcy that's pure gain.
Imagine a rose's rarest essence lying in it's thorns. This is how I would describe the essence of my life.
With a few of you, things flowed between us that cannot be said or written. Some of you left, and in doing so, made my sky weep, and my mind and soul full of grief.
No one can take your place in my existence nor in your absence. The sadness I feel has taken me from the taste of good language.
Nana once said to me, "Tears are like grief water you use to nuture the seeds of your soul." Deep. I've increasingly found that one of the primary reasons we refused to cry culturally is that crying forces one to reflect. Reflection is a dangerous thing, expecially when we run the risk of seeing our own reflection.
My only two rules - (1) No Days Unalert, and (2) Suffer The Pain.
I imagine there will be similar feelings on my music. Some will have loved it. Many will have hated it. I suppose that's the nature of art (or un-art depending on who you ask). I know it's hard to state the purpose of one's art beyond self-expression, but if I could perfectly articulate the purpose of my music, I would characterize it as the waves swaying against your boats. But because I will not get to decide, I can only hope that maybe a few of you will stumble on to what I was actually trying to say. I know what I want to say, it's just that sometimes the words don't fit in my mouth.
I am stuck in the mud of my life. Fool's gold trying to purify itself. The caged bird in me wants to freedom, but realizes that she'll never be able to do so... within the confines of the lines drawn on the paper of my poems. They act like prison bars in a sense, attempting to constrain and restrain my heart's thoughts.
I hope, that at some point, I'm viewed less as a merchant, and more as an artist (in the true sense). To those who I've encountered who, for whatever reason, have been turned away from me (by myself, or my actions, or what you've heard), I sincerely apologize. If my message was lost, I am the only one responsible for that.
There is some kiss we want with our whole lives... mine is for you see my thorns, and yet still perceive my essence.
Tonight, I will ask the moon to come to me, close the language door, and open the window of understanding.
Proverbs 1:23
Turn you at my reproof: behold, I will pour out my spirit unto you, I will make known my words unto you.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
...
in my heart, i know you read this. more for me then for you... maybe. in my heart, im sad and confused.
what do you stand to gain?
190 days.
i'm sorry i couldn't protect you from him. im sorry i couldn't protect you from me. what makes me worse than him?
190 days.
i loved you. he loved you not.
lord forgive me for my sins, i know it's last minute.
if you think it will help, i'll believe you.
what do you stand to gain?
190 days.
i'm sorry i couldn't protect you from him. im sorry i couldn't protect you from me. what makes me worse than him?
190 days.
i loved you. he loved you not.
lord forgive me for my sins, i know it's last minute.
if you think it will help, i'll believe you.
Speaking Silence...
she told me to be gentle... that i was holding her heart and should take extra special care of it. i responded using her heart as the canvas by which I would carve my name into.
i told her "your heart's (drum) beat beats just for me."
she tried her best to listen... to stay on beat.... but couldn't fit the words in her heart in her mouth to say them.
i woke up this morning to a beautiful sunrise... the same one that was taken away from me before. she said "i know you're not the same person. I can tell just by the things you're writing."
I want to tell her I was sick - trying to reinvent my shattered self. She never cared.
The funniest part about all of this is, those who don't know me seem to be more clearly clued in to what I'm talking about.
No girl, but world.
I miss how hip hop used to be.
And somedays I even miss my old superficial life where she was the one i came home to everyday
The best advice I can give you, my friend, is to ne
i told her "your heart's (drum) beat beats just for me."
she tried her best to listen... to stay on beat.... but couldn't fit the words in her heart in her mouth to say them.
i woke up this morning to a beautiful sunrise... the same one that was taken away from me before. she said "i know you're not the same person. I can tell just by the things you're writing."
I want to tell her I was sick - trying to reinvent my shattered self. She never cared.
The funniest part about all of this is, those who don't know me seem to be more clearly clued in to what I'm talking about.
No girl, but world.
I miss how hip hop used to be.
And somedays I even miss my old superficial life where she was the one i came home to everyday
The best advice I can give you, my friend, is to ne
ailing away...
sailing away...
this is a pain you can't exactly feel with your hands... my labor of love. i write to right, but what happens when you can no longer distinguish between wrong and right?
i just want to be heard. not to save anyone, or be the voice of anyone's movement. if the universe could hear me, G.d might remember that i exist.
i realized i only pray when i need something. so i stopped praying altogether.
amen.
this is a pain you can't exactly feel with your hands... my labor of love. i write to right, but what happens when you can no longer distinguish between wrong and right?
i just want to be heard. not to save anyone, or be the voice of anyone's movement. if the universe could hear me, G.d might remember that i exist.
i realized i only pray when i need something. so i stopped praying altogether.
amen.
Seeing With Closed Eyes...
Seeing With Closed Eyes...
the inside of my heart is bleeding and on fire... Love wills that these Words be brought forth... and so i write. behind the veils we both cry... and i know that even if you refused to admit it, when we ended, a large part of you died. i have died to myself and i live through you... only you want me to go to hell.... and i say being born and living there is why a chance we never faired....
should by chance you read this, know that my only real mistake was caring too much and not knowing how to express it.
i've been trapped in this invisible prison for a year now. i guess to a large extent so have you. they say they want the best - for you, they want what's best for them. because you're true independence has nothing to do with their happiness. i'm already wounded and slain. do what you must.
at days end, i miss my pen. i yearn for inspiration so i can unwrap this albatross from around my neck.
strange fruit.
blood on the tree. blood on the root. grown in shit. but from it comes one of life's great wonders. i see you sitting in an orchid field of hope and imagination.
please. hurry and listen to me. my pen's running out of ink...
AJS
the inside of my heart is bleeding and on fire... Love wills that these Words be brought forth... and so i write. behind the veils we both cry... and i know that even if you refused to admit it, when we ended, a large part of you died. i have died to myself and i live through you... only you want me to go to hell.... and i say being born and living there is why a chance we never faired....
should by chance you read this, know that my only real mistake was caring too much and not knowing how to express it.
i've been trapped in this invisible prison for a year now. i guess to a large extent so have you. they say they want the best - for you, they want what's best for them. because you're true independence has nothing to do with their happiness. i'm already wounded and slain. do what you must.
at days end, i miss my pen. i yearn for inspiration so i can unwrap this albatross from around my neck.
strange fruit.
blood on the tree. blood on the root. grown in shit. but from it comes one of life's great wonders. i see you sitting in an orchid field of hope and imagination.
please. hurry and listen to me. my pen's running out of ink...
AJS
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Music By Hand, Music By Heart...
I don't listen to what music critics say. I don't know anybody who needs a critic to find out what music is. what is a critic anyway, but a faultfinder? i hear music playing all the time. some days it sounds round, and i can see it turn colors. my last two performances felt "groundbreaking" because i finally reconnected with the guy who wrote the songs. for awhile i found it too painful to try to juggle both personalities. my music is bipolar, and i'm comfortably dealing with chips on both shoulders. every time i write a song, i lose a friend. i strike the wrong chords in people i guess. im like a dj of the soul. i mix and match silence and sound. light and dark. hope and despair. all in an attempt to make your bodies jerk! some mcs will tell you to throw your hands up to play to their own egos. i'm indirectly asking you to assume the posture of pray, and see G.d. at one time i had many friends and mundane worries. "Music is a gift that feels our heart each day!" i laugh at such optimism. for writer, music is a curse that fills one's soul with a certain melodic emptiness. music by hand. and music by heart. i prick my finger to pen these poems. otherwise who i am would never show up on the paper. i am tired now. i will sleep until my inner demons return.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
A Little Bit of Nothing Left...
Today, as I was walking by a man sitting on the ground with a sign asking for change, I looked down and was debating whether or not I should give him money, and as he looked up at me, he said, "Remember that you are mortal..."
Over the last two months or so (that I haven't been writing), I've been busy trying to find a cohesive narrative and cinematic parallel between what I'm going through and what the rest of the world is going through. My original goal was to try to create a situation where I would/could serve as a poetic mediator between the lines on the paper (that space where life happens). The whole dilemma of identity is rather restraining - like a straitjacket in a sense. Then I thought.... what if there were no rebillions against constraints, and all our metaphors were the exact same?
The idea of "Identity" has a built in death element. But in this scenario, the death is the liberation, so without it, the possibility of a new self (of growth) is an impossibility.
So I sat, pondering the idea of freedom - of escaping the fixed "self." Is it possible? If it is possible, should it be?
I'm so far from heaven, at times I feel my sins are a way of getting back at G.d for... for my perceived "talent." I don't know if I'd call what I have a talent though. Not in that sense. I still find it hard to believe that people would actually pay to hear my voice talking about whatever.
Imagine making a grilled cheese sandwich for you and your friends. Imagine it was one of those summer days when you come home a bit earlier than normal only to find that there's nothing in your house but old milk, bread, and some of that good ol' government cheese. So it's you and your boys in Granny's kitchen, and you're like "fuck it! I'm bout to make this food'." So you get out the bread and the cheese and start putting your Chef-Boy-R-D thing down. You make everyone a sandwich, and get out a few glasses for the water because the milk is in chunk form at this point. You all sit down at that little ass table, and begin making soul business with the grub. Your boy looks up and says, "Jesus man, this is fucking delicious!" And your other boy is agreeing saying, "Homie, G.d blessed this sandwich."
They finish, and leave you sitting there feeling like you just got played. You comment to yourself, "Corny ass niggas. Come over, eat my shit, and bounce!" Only the next day, that group of 3 has grown to 8, then 15 the day after that, then 50. You think to yourself, "Man, this is crazy." Your boys are eating, they happy, you're happy, but you starting to get tired. You gotta keep feeding them though, because for a lot of them, this is all they got. It's cheaply made, and the ingredients aren't that good, but they love it. You know you aren't a chef deep down, and even try to tell them, but they aint having it. To them, you are the greatest thing since.... well sliced bread. You go to sleep because you're exhausted. You been making grilled cheese non-stop for months now.
You fall asleep accidently, wake up, and its 2008. This same group of friends has grown to an absurd number of people. Some of your original friends are still down, but they kind of resent you now like, "Fuck that nigga. He act like he too good for grilled cheese." SOme of those friends actually hate you now like, "dude is corny. My grilled cheese is way better than his. I used that good cheese from where the white people shop." You still got a few people who legitimately love your sandwiches, and it feels good, but now you're on call and have to try to anticipate when they'll want it, and how exactly they'll want it. Everyone has an opinion on your sandwiches now, and in your mind, you're like "It's just grilled cheese!"
You never asked this. You were just trying to give a little of what you had. A band-aid for a gun shot wound. Now you're both hated and love (more hated) for trying to help. People who don't even know you go out of their way to sabotage you because they don't/can't understand that you were only trying to fill a void. Your sincerest attempt to provide the people you cared about most with means to help justify their END(troduction) have become the primary reason why they and other hate you.
People, it's just grilled cheese. I made the best I could with what I had. Hate it or love it, a few ate, which is always better than anyone going hungry.
Or so I thought....
AJS
Over the last two months or so (that I haven't been writing), I've been busy trying to find a cohesive narrative and cinematic parallel between what I'm going through and what the rest of the world is going through. My original goal was to try to create a situation where I would/could serve as a poetic mediator between the lines on the paper (that space where life happens). The whole dilemma of identity is rather restraining - like a straitjacket in a sense. Then I thought.... what if there were no rebillions against constraints, and all our metaphors were the exact same?
The idea of "Identity" has a built in death element. But in this scenario, the death is the liberation, so without it, the possibility of a new self (of growth) is an impossibility.
So I sat, pondering the idea of freedom - of escaping the fixed "self." Is it possible? If it is possible, should it be?
I'm so far from heaven, at times I feel my sins are a way of getting back at G.d for... for my perceived "talent." I don't know if I'd call what I have a talent though. Not in that sense. I still find it hard to believe that people would actually pay to hear my voice talking about whatever.
Imagine making a grilled cheese sandwich for you and your friends. Imagine it was one of those summer days when you come home a bit earlier than normal only to find that there's nothing in your house but old milk, bread, and some of that good ol' government cheese. So it's you and your boys in Granny's kitchen, and you're like "fuck it! I'm bout to make this food'." So you get out the bread and the cheese and start putting your Chef-Boy-R-D thing down. You make everyone a sandwich, and get out a few glasses for the water because the milk is in chunk form at this point. You all sit down at that little ass table, and begin making soul business with the grub. Your boy looks up and says, "Jesus man, this is fucking delicious!" And your other boy is agreeing saying, "Homie, G.d blessed this sandwich."
They finish, and leave you sitting there feeling like you just got played. You comment to yourself, "Corny ass niggas. Come over, eat my shit, and bounce!" Only the next day, that group of 3 has grown to 8, then 15 the day after that, then 50. You think to yourself, "Man, this is crazy." Your boys are eating, they happy, you're happy, but you starting to get tired. You gotta keep feeding them though, because for a lot of them, this is all they got. It's cheaply made, and the ingredients aren't that good, but they love it. You know you aren't a chef deep down, and even try to tell them, but they aint having it. To them, you are the greatest thing since.... well sliced bread. You go to sleep because you're exhausted. You been making grilled cheese non-stop for months now.
You fall asleep accidently, wake up, and its 2008. This same group of friends has grown to an absurd number of people. Some of your original friends are still down, but they kind of resent you now like, "Fuck that nigga. He act like he too good for grilled cheese." SOme of those friends actually hate you now like, "dude is corny. My grilled cheese is way better than his. I used that good cheese from where the white people shop." You still got a few people who legitimately love your sandwiches, and it feels good, but now you're on call and have to try to anticipate when they'll want it, and how exactly they'll want it. Everyone has an opinion on your sandwiches now, and in your mind, you're like "It's just grilled cheese!"
You never asked this. You were just trying to give a little of what you had. A band-aid for a gun shot wound. Now you're both hated and love (more hated) for trying to help. People who don't even know you go out of their way to sabotage you because they don't/can't understand that you were only trying to fill a void. Your sincerest attempt to provide the people you cared about most with means to help justify their END(troduction) have become the primary reason why they and other hate you.
People, it's just grilled cheese. I made the best I could with what I had. Hate it or love it, a few ate, which is always better than anyone going hungry.
Or so I thought....
AJS
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Our Beautiful House of Cards...
So I've been trying to finish this song for you... (you know who you are). Help me finish it here:
Our Beautiful House of Cards...
Verse 1
Bereft of the old,
But blessed with the new,
I cried myself blind
Crying tears over you
Love and gratitude
Trump grief...
I felt the weight of the world
Every time I heard you weep
Bridge
Love's dart pierced my vacant heart
How superficial this art
Just wanting to be heard
Forgiveness seems absurd
When fights break hearts thrice
Chorus
I'm a slippery slope with no hope
Throw me a rope...
"Hang in there" we whisper
Another failed attempt to forget her
Both on her floor and in my mind
The pain of a burned picture...
Verse 2
You kissed by the book
I wrote to be free
You left during winter
Cast me out to see
All the mistakes I've made
[INSERT YOUR HEART HERE]
Inspiration for the song:
"(Another Song) All Over Again"
You've been alone, you've been afraid
I've been a fool
In so many ways
but I would change my life
If you thought you, might try to love me
So please give me another chance
To write you another song
And take back those things I've done
Cause I'll give you my heart
If you would let me start all over,
Again
I'm not a saint
I'm just a man
Who had heaven and Earth
In the palm of his hand
but I threw it away
So now I stand here today asking forgiveness and if you could just please
Give me another chance
to write you another song
And take back those thing's I've done
Cause I'll give you my heart
If you would let me start all over
Again
Little girl you're all I've got.
Don't you leave me standing here once again?
'Cause I'll give you my life
Yes I would.
If you would let me try to love you
So please give me another chance to write you another song and take back those thing's I've done
'Cause I'll give you my heart
If you would let me start all over
Again
Again, oh,no no ohh
You know I love you, yeah
give me one more chance
No no, no no no no
Our Beautiful House of Cards...
Verse 1
Bereft of the old,
But blessed with the new,
I cried myself blind
Crying tears over you
Love and gratitude
Trump grief...
I felt the weight of the world
Every time I heard you weep
Bridge
Love's dart pierced my vacant heart
How superficial this art
Just wanting to be heard
Forgiveness seems absurd
When fights break hearts thrice
Chorus
I'm a slippery slope with no hope
Throw me a rope...
"Hang in there" we whisper
Another failed attempt to forget her
Both on her floor and in my mind
The pain of a burned picture...
Verse 2
You kissed by the book
I wrote to be free
You left during winter
Cast me out to see
All the mistakes I've made
[INSERT YOUR HEART HERE]
Inspiration for the song:
"(Another Song) All Over Again"
You've been alone, you've been afraid
I've been a fool
In so many ways
but I would change my life
If you thought you, might try to love me
So please give me another chance
To write you another song
And take back those things I've done
Cause I'll give you my heart
If you would let me start all over,
Again
I'm not a saint
I'm just a man
Who had heaven and Earth
In the palm of his hand
but I threw it away
So now I stand here today asking forgiveness and if you could just please
Give me another chance
to write you another song
And take back those thing's I've done
Cause I'll give you my heart
If you would let me start all over
Again
Little girl you're all I've got.
Don't you leave me standing here once again?
'Cause I'll give you my life
Yes I would.
If you would let me try to love you
So please give me another chance to write you another song and take back those thing's I've done
'Cause I'll give you my heart
If you would let me start all over
Again
Again, oh,no no ohh
You know I love you, yeah
give me one more chance
No no, no no no no
Thursday, January 3, 2008
NO STRENGTH BUT YOURS...
NO STRENGTH BUT YOURS...
pain has taken away my practices and filled me with poetry. i tried to keep quietly repeating, NO STRENGTH BUT YOURS, but i feel i shouldn't. i used to be respectable, shining, and stable, but who cam stand in this strong wind and remember those days?
we rarely hear our inner-music anymore, but we're all dancing the dance nevertheless.
never the less!
i started looking for you the minute after i heard my first love story. you hate me so much you'd rather cage my inner-bird, keep me from flying free, and mute my song (when deep down i know it feels like throwing stones at a mirror).
but you won't know....
pain has taken away my practices and filled me with poetry. i tried to keep quietly repeating, NO STRENGTH BUT YOURS, but i feel i shouldn't. i used to be respectable, shining, and stable, but who cam stand in this strong wind and remember those days?
we rarely hear our inner-music anymore, but we're all dancing the dance nevertheless.
never the less!
i started looking for you the minute after i heard my first love story. you hate me so much you'd rather cage my inner-bird, keep me from flying free, and mute my song (when deep down i know it feels like throwing stones at a mirror).
but you won't know....
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