In light of recent events in the Detroit poetry community, and the decension that has taken place I dedicate this to every poet who has forgotten what this art is truly about.... Poetry done went gangsta yall The Muse done took off her skirt and put on a pair of Timbos She scats machine gun funk with metaphors Cause now stanzas become artillery for a war Similes silence souls As the slithers of shattered thought Fly through third eyes blind Poets perpetuate poisonous prose Instead of peace Alliteration is the assassination of sound While verbs twist truth in states of mangled meanings Bombs bombard blasted blown out brains Where the blood of another victim of a poet beat down Decorates my soul’s window pane I stand outside in the rain Bathing in my own tears Watching another poet pluck apart our collective dreams Every time you step to the mic To desecrate another divine being Malice Greed Pride Envy Hypocrisy Gossip Hatred Seven deadly sins Committed with the tongue and the pen May God take back his gift Before we waste another second of life Living as heathens instead of gods We are the evils of the flesh manifest Making high claims to righteousness Yet surrendering to a heart full of ill will and pettiness What happened to the love that once bound the artistic community? What happened to the sense of unity? What have we done to offend one another? My heart aches every time I see another grim face Or frowns of contempt and distaste I’m tired of backstabbing whispers Forked tongued lies Let’s just be real If you must kill me Do it in the open and out loud Take those spikes driven through your wrists And nail me to the same cross With eyes wide open So I can see the serpent inside of you Let me apply the same whip to your back That was lashed against mine Come off that stage Let’s get raw and thump right here Eye for an eye Tooth for a tooth Ear for an ear Like Tyson and Holyfield My soul wearies of the treachery and hypocrisy How dare we disrespect the sacredness of the arts? When God freely gave these gifts to the griots of pure heart Understand this talent is not your own We are merely stewards of a gift Intended to heal, restore, and uplift Who the hell do we think we are? Acting like super stars When we have actually fallen from the pedestals Of our own wicked imaginations Sliced our throats on our own fallacies Never realizing the tragedy we have wrought Our souls sold and bought On the emptiness of our own distorted thoughts I feel like Brother Baraka Our poems are ******** If they don’t have any other purpose Than to scourge and abuse one another We must realize that we are lovers The sons and daughters of lovers Beautiful Ones Not yet conscious of the divinity that lies inside Denounce the mask that Brother Langston Knew disguised the cries of our lost souls Let no more poems be written Until we can purge our souls of hatred Let no more words be wasted in open mic melees Until our minds are cleansed of carnality People this is the sad reality That we have become casualties Of our own self inflicted maladies So let us no longer be known as POETS Until we can respect and appreciate the God in us all And earn the right to pick up a pen once more Cause if we don’t then tell me What the hell are we writing for?