Black Poetry : My Fountain Pen

Cherry blossom I am so glad that you enjoyed this poem...I think you and I should do a collaboration poem what say you?

Oh, Bro. Nahson, I am so flattered by your invitation!

.....*And, I suspect you're trying to pull me back into tha' Light.* lol

However, okay....I'll take the bait.....I'm rusty; but I'd be glad to make the attempt with you.
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

wow.. i come in rarely... glad i did though... and thanx for pullin up " my pen " and i'm honored for the inspiration..
this one's all that and cherry blossom was nice 2.



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Happy Thanksgiving everyone hope all is well
cherryblossom wrote on Joyce's profile.
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