Black Poetry : Define Poet

Jazz4u

Well-Known Member
REGISTERED MEMBER
Aug 15, 2003
185
0
Atlanta
A percussion instrument rests buried in our chest
beat upon by emotions that orchestrate the many symphonies duplicated in its infinitely repetitive states
Our hair becomes the strings for violins and cellos to play their weeping songs in perfect rhythm with our lungs converted to flutes that attack the heavens in flights of sound and fury reaching heights that haven’t been documented
You are warned to start recording history beeps the parental advisory just before
I AM THE PHONIEX!!!
Trumpets from our wounds that leak falsetto tears drowning in its chance to be heard as it hits the floor screaming
“I will haunt the wind until it carries my message among ears instructed to brand our words unto the consciousness like it was a personal experience”
“let is be heard” our minds tell the world and it gets louder in its fevered passions of understanding every written moment
fingers of xylophone bars vibrate from the release and clenching of fist banging against iron doors that slam shut in front of us
along the windows
bars that try to capture the light that we write by
so we freestyle the notes of freedom
and itched into the walls Braille for the seeing eye
witness the art
form
life
poet
 

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