Black Poetry : My Fountain Pen

Nahshon

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Sep 20, 2001
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Nahshon.Swanston

My fountain pen is my syringe
Pulls from veins to write the pangs in my blood,
Because the ink just aint thick enough to tell the stories of a soul.
I may be an abuser of trees or papyrus leaves
Emotionally sieved bleed
my thoughts on to the pages of books
Contorting emotions into poetic hooks
Inviting new ones into the circumference of My life
to shine a little light
So that others just might know who I am
I am just One of the sons of creation
I'm just a funk-lovin, jazz smokin, love makin,
star trekkin, vulcan-mind meldin with poets from planet groove
I'll give you a Flow of words flow of sounds that make your minds want to move
to the beat of heartbeats the internal eternal lifedrum
jammin on the one pouring words into brandy sniffers
Even the aroma you could get drunk from.
In truth I am just a man
struggling and striving to be more
No longer poetry ****
I was upgraded to a poetry whore
(because I've been paid by it)
I've been that poet addict
livin from poetry spot
to livin on the streets
with soiled underpants, stanky feet beggin for a little sumthin to eat.
And though I've changed I want to help make it plain
that this turbulent sea of humanity can't be calmed by the dam of understanding
Though I wish it could
I want to be just one of them n*ggas that let the word out the bag about spiritual things that make spirit fleshly beings want to sing
I've seen
Men make natural beings turn to techno-industrial whores
I want to see nature become natural to us once more.
I seen hurtful people that love sin death and strife
Our days would be much better if we just became addicted to life.
But you see this poem has not been
me pouring my soul out like I ought
this poem is just an end thought
To a bad f*cking year, month, week, and day
So F*cking tired
I've nothin more to say
I am trying to keep the evilness at bay
Yet tomorrow is another day
There be plenty of trees
I'll transform to books pages and I got enough in my veins to write with
Nah'shon Rae




 
My fountain pen is my syringe
Pulls from veins to write the pangs in my blood,
Because the ink just aint thick enough to tell the stories of a soul.
I may be an abuser of trees or papyrus leaves
Emotionally sieved bleed
my thoughts on to the pages of books
Contorting emotions into poetic hooks
Inviting new ones into the circumference of My life
to shine a little light
So that others just might know who I am
I am just One of the sons of creation
I'm just a funk-lovin, jazz smokin, love makin,
star trekkin, vulcan-mind meldin with poets from planet groove
I'll give you a Flow of words flow of sounds that make your minds want to move
to the beat of heartbeats the internal eternal lifedrum
jammin on the one pouring words into brandy sniffers
Even the aroma you could get drunk from.
In truth I am just a man
struggling and striving to be more
No longer poetry ****
I was upgraded to a poetry whore
(because I've been paid by it)
I've been that poet addict
livin from poetry spot
to livin on the streets
with soiled underpants, stanky feet beggin for a little sumthin to eat.
And though I've changed I want to help make it plain
that this turbulent sea of humanity can't be calmed by the dam of understanding
Though I wish it could
I want to be just one of them n*ggas that let the word out the bag about spiritual things that make spirit fleshly beings want to sing
I've seen
Men make natural beings turn to techno-industrial whores
I want to see nature become natural to us once more.
I seen hurtful people that love sin death and strife
Our days would be much better if we just became addicted to life.
But you see this poem has not been
me pouring my soul out like I ought
this poem is just an end thought
To a bad f*cking year, month, week, and day
So F*cking tired
I've nothin more to say
I am trying to keep the evilness at bay
Yet tomorrow is another day
There be plenty of trees
I'll transform to books pages and I got enough in my veins to write with
Nah'shon Rae


What you been thru I purposely avoided,
so afraid my words would be distorted...
neon lights, hot nights, floatin with weeded pipes.
I hate it when I think back on those days,
booty bustin hoes when it I that was played.
But like all illusions that come tumbling down,
I started gazing up when my @ss hit the ground.
Realized that something had to get better...
stopped my stinkin thinkin and lustin for the cheddar.
Now I only write poems to help me console,
to empty out my heart where there used to be a hole...
But your ish tells a story and I know it's not too late,
just dropped you a few to say man I can relate!
 
Because the ink just aint thick enough to tell the stories of a soul.


WHEW! I enjoyed the whole but THIS line went to the marrow for me.



In long days past
There was once
A daily outpouring of my quill
But along the way
Over paths I've taken
And the demons I've shaken
I lost the will to spill
Left only with a crippling mental languish
After multitudes of sorrows and anguish
And so, my pen has lain mute
Unable to aptly match and suit
The corresponding speech
For the chasm and breach
Between my mind and soul
Pondering:
How foolish am I to think
That mere ink
Could make me whole?
As if any lyrical composition
Could produce such coalition
And dispel every apparition
Which, thru the years,
Attacked and plagued me?
Truly, can such healing
Be found in poetry?......
But, just in case so, I yet wait
For the vaguest chance of any hope
To, once again, create and collate
A balm with a lyrical saving rope.
 
What you been thru I purposely avoided,
so afraid my words would be distorted...
neon lights, hot nights, floatin with weeded pipes.
I hate it when I think back on those days,
booty bustin hoes when it I that was played.
But like all illusions that come tumbling down,
I started gazing up when my @ss hit the ground.
Realized that something had to get better...
stopped my stinkin thinkin and lustin for the cheddar.
Now I only write poems to help me console,
to empty out my heart where there used to be a hole...
But your ish tells a story and I know it's not too late,
just dropped you a few to say man I can relate!
My dear bro Keita I am so glad you enjoyed and could relate...thank you for your inspired words...
 
WHEW! I enjoyed the whole but THIS line went to the marrow for me.
Cherry blossom I am so glad that you enjoyed this poem...I think you and I should do a collaboration poem what say you?


In long days past
There was once
A daily outpouring of my quill
But along the way
Over paths I've taken
And the demons I've shaken
I lost the will to spill
Left only with a crippling mental languish
After multitudes of sorrows and anguish
And so, my pen has lain mute
Unable to aptly match and suit
The corresponding speech
For the chasm and breach
Between my mind and soul
Pondering:
How foolish am I to think
That mere ink
Could make me whole?
As if any lyrical composition
Could produce such coalition
And dispel every apparition
Which, thru the years,
Attacked and plagued me?
Truly, can such healing
Be found in poetry?......
But, just in case so, I yet wait
For even the chance of any hope
To, once again, create and collate
A balm with a lyrical saving rope.
 

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