(I) can’t let her go,
connected from head to toe,
(she’s) contained my brain,
to make my words flow.
She knows me;
off the tops of trees,
good friends, O.G.’s, North side streets,
(even when I’m) in way too deep….
She’s there—with the only care
being me.
Freeing thee form self-induced
insecurities,
interview apologies, cuzz corporate muthafuckas
in the “O”, don’t understand
my hood psychology.
(They) look at me crazy because of the hair,
yet, I don’t care,
cross my eyes and give 'em
an old school mean mug stare.
And see, she’s still there.
By my side, like veins in the skin,
a beginning that never ends,
360 degrees, and back again,
deeper than the 7 deadly sins,
or ancestors 6 feet deep in coffins…
Adding up the last two numbers
and coming up with 13 righteous ends
more than just a friend,
or luv, she’s a gift,
from the Most High above.
I cherish her more than American,
did Michael Jackson’s glove,
she covers me.
In the street, where the stars don’t shine,
in the bar, where the wine
glistens and listens to my favorite rhymes—
her gives me lines.
Not of coke, but hope;
where the voiceless are screaming,
and finally heard,
where joyous sounds are understood,
in the hood, and on the curb.
She is more than these words.
Essence and presence, she presents me
with an opportunity to be me,
not some corporate jockey,
or just some ***** off the street.
hella sloppy—
I love she.
And she I,
for nights I cried, tired,
because I thought she left me…..
But by the hand of Him
guiding me to my pen,
she’s back in my life…
So if you ask me
why
I write;
I have no problem
pulling you to the side
and explaining the orgasm she gives me
all night—
It’s never a fight,
she takes me on flights of
beautiful realities
causing my body to fold on
bended knee thanking them
for the gift to express,
being at my best,
when I address a pen to a pad
I’m back on the block
(where writers are)
and I’m so glad…
(thank you poetry)
©2005 Clarence Barbee/Nabraska/AlienHead Productions
connected from head to toe,
(she’s) contained my brain,
to make my words flow.
She knows me;
off the tops of trees,
good friends, O.G.’s, North side streets,
(even when I’m) in way too deep….
She’s there—with the only care
being me.
Freeing thee form self-induced
insecurities,
interview apologies, cuzz corporate muthafuckas
in the “O”, don’t understand
my hood psychology.
(They) look at me crazy because of the hair,
yet, I don’t care,
cross my eyes and give 'em
an old school mean mug stare.
And see, she’s still there.
By my side, like veins in the skin,
a beginning that never ends,
360 degrees, and back again,
deeper than the 7 deadly sins,
or ancestors 6 feet deep in coffins…
Adding up the last two numbers
and coming up with 13 righteous ends
more than just a friend,
or luv, she’s a gift,
from the Most High above.
I cherish her more than American,
did Michael Jackson’s glove,
she covers me.
In the street, where the stars don’t shine,
in the bar, where the wine
glistens and listens to my favorite rhymes—
her gives me lines.
Not of coke, but hope;
where the voiceless are screaming,
and finally heard,
where joyous sounds are understood,
in the hood, and on the curb.
She is more than these words.
Essence and presence, she presents me
with an opportunity to be me,
not some corporate jockey,
or just some ***** off the street.
hella sloppy—
I love she.
And she I,
for nights I cried, tired,
because I thought she left me…..
But by the hand of Him
guiding me to my pen,
she’s back in my life…
So if you ask me
why
I write;
I have no problem
pulling you to the side
and explaining the orgasm she gives me
all night—
It’s never a fight,
she takes me on flights of
beautiful realities
causing my body to fold on
bended knee thanking them
for the gift to express,
being at my best,
when I address a pen to a pad
I’m back on the block
(where writers are)
and I’m so glad…
(thank you poetry)
©2005 Clarence Barbee/Nabraska/AlienHead Productions
