Graffiti Bleu…

Poets are smart enough to locate seeds of inspiration/ wise enough to prepare those seeds for cultivation/ clever enough to harvest the words/ seasoned enough to roll up the herbs/ and blow smoke into metaphors, pronouns and verbs/ haiku’s and testimonies/ shadowboxing with soliloquies/ stanzas, novels and sweet melodies/ Earth is the poet’s mother and we are indeed those special children who take root into her richness as we dine from the light of the sky/ Leafs personify verses as they fall in fall/ the many colors of crimson blanket the ground the way open mics blanket eager ears/ A natural balance and a balance of nature/ but ask for balance and some look like they hate ya/ especially when balance is about that green paper/ Or at least they hate the fact that you asked/ Like I imagine a pimp does when his bottom bitch says “she’s tired of living fast” / Why is that? Or better yet, how in Hell did we get here? / That awkward place without balance where resources aren’t invested in sources? Poets are smart enough to harvest fruit during dry seasons/ Brave enough to lead legions/ Bold enough to stick their minds into chaos to pull out reasons/ sick enough to memorize lines and topics/ but not smart enough to turn a profit?
Stop It.–
Destiny Robbins…
There’s no money in poetry, why is that? Is it because the money is too busy going to rap?
Telling all the thick girls in the club to make it clap
Quite frankly, I’m getting sick of that
So if you steppin to this queen then you better not be spittin that
This is a question that’s never plagued mankind
We’re no longer taught to use our mind
Today mankind is too caught up chasing the dime
Well let me tell you a little nursery rhyme
Once upon a time… we used to exchange minds
No pun intended
but every lyric and rule I have is mean to be bended
And I can’t pretend it
But when your actions suggest that I’m worth nothing or less
Then I downright get offended
I got that—spoken word like my body smooth with curves
It will leave you feelin like you can’t believe what you heard
For a living I want to spit rhymes
I wanna make time for the people that don’t have time
Our nation is in dire need of edification
So each verse I give is meant for upliftment and education
Meant to encourage you
And nourish you
And revive your soul
It’s a full time job with a list of goals
So quite frankly, this question is getting old

(Let’s fix it, let’s get it)
Ike Torres…

Let’s get it…
My intent is to binge feed these diabetic minds comatose by these sugar coated rhymes cutting lines paying no never mind to cocaine lines cut for consumption kicking conundrums to blow out your eardrums as these lines pierce your eardrum poetics over bullshit pulpit with wordsmiths in a soup kitchen serving as fixtures for this life we live staring at the edge taunting wind to push us over four leaf clovers are for weaker minds these techniques peak as we speak to souls searching for that free doom consumed by heirlooms passed down over time pivotal jewels shine blinding sworn in crooks attempting to  capture castles from under our noses juxtaposed to Machiavellian tactics counter actions prohibit wool meant to blanket these eyes they say money and poetry don’t mix as if starving artists are supposed to remain blinded to the notion that promoters are supposed to feast while the creators spend their existence with a belly full of unrealized dreams
these themes wreak havoc on beautiful minds your mathematics are anti-Pythagoras if you think I’m ok with laying on brass tack mattresses belly up grateful for a quick fuck while your pockets get thicker poets are pontificators of emotion vibrating through the sands of time we equivalent to iron mic pre paper view don king hype!
Coon The Poet…
Started writing with broken pockets and a heart of a millionaire
With the right hustle and grind, there’s a profit to be made anywhere…
so this young artist from the heart of South Sac
began to poetically prophet everywhere
from hood curbs to the suburbs
where this art form was rare
different places, different stages
in front of church congregations,
school kids of all ages,
spreading this creative virus,
making it stylish, and contagious
and what was even more outrageous…
was that gigantic CHECK the gave us
NICE… while it lasted
but life has a way of collecting it’s back taxes…
you see this game, like any game
in the words of my O.G. “Hawthorne James”
“is a roller coaster”
so you must have the HEART for this,
or it will take you soul right over
so I grip the mic tight,
closer to my lips
because in truth, I EAT WITH THIS
this is how I make a living
giving kids Keys to break out of their mental prisons
the prison that I once lived in
I’m giving my whole hearted energy toward my gift
my presence crystallizes and breaks down to uncommon cents
and since time is money, money can be funny
and we all know this
my craft is know laughing matter
I’m a very serious poet
but even more sincere about my purpose
as long I spend my life, changing lives while walking on earths surface


You see I know who truly provides for me
so do I make money making poetry?
well not that it’s any of your business,
but as long as stay about “HIS” business…
I’ll put it simply…
Russell Cummings
This might get tweeked a lil bit: fighting for the people don’t get you paid/ it get you hated, early greys and an early grave/ and ballers balance budgets just because they play a game/ rappers in the game play for a team, they just don’t play the same/ playing dumb for a paycheck, sell they pride for profit/ who should have your attention is rarely the one who got it/ you keep knockin that nonsense, we over here Harlem Renaissance-in/ cuz how can your priority be profit when you know you’re a prophet/ is it poor marketing, not properly promoting?/ monopoly money goes to promoters and property owners/ and we notice, but we focus on making a dif-fe-rence/ but the ones that need the message aren’t the ones that’s listening/ so if it’s kind of real, is it still hatin?/ when you trying to eat do you sell your soul to make the bacon/ reality divas going ham, while poet pockets are muslim/ we do it to reach ‘em, we don’t reach ‘em, we do it for nothing/ if that was true, I would gladly do it for nothing/ or to lay with ladies, My Buddys and Teddy Ruxpins/ (poetry has perks, my pieces tickle and touch ‘em)/ do it just to prove you can do it without fronting/ just for the chance I might take your mind, infuse it with substance/ and if I swing and I miss, then I’m swinging again/ whether I play in the league or I play in the streets/ if I bring one home then that’s payment enough/ but then I see my daughter growing, knowing I ain’t making enough/ these damn commercials on Nickelodeon making it tough/ if my callin only make change then how we changing it up/ cuz it’s hard to feed your seed off poetry bro/ some of the dopest artists I know getting rides to the show/ but they’re there though, look like a natural hair show/ no 2 chains, but speak riches into the air though/ so if my art doesn’t make money it doesn’t mean sh**/ does the road I chose make me less of a genius/ so many questions so I’ll answer the question, it doesn’t matter/ when you realize the value of your mind fake money is not a factor/ but we are forced to be capitalists, so I’ll state this/ anyone can be successful, whatever is what you make it.
David R. Demola…
I’ve literally saved more lives than I can count 
with only a handful of poems
and an honest heart
not for applause or admiration
but because Truth
is a choice I cannot live without.
And the Truth is our words have worth
Some say it’s Priceless, the cost of our words,
Not quantifiable by numbers
Price figures
For the hearts we touch
But how many hospitals accept surgery payments in the form of love?
When the rent is due,
Don’t ask for hugs and kind thoughts.
But, for some reason, people
who spend money on chai-mocha-something’s so they can wake up for work
can’t lift a finger for people who want to wake up their souls.
They think we are shiftless,
Like this shit comes easy.
They want you to believe
that only artist worth feeding must be starving
Because they think Middle Management careers are the only lives that have any purpose or meaning.
But how many lives have they saved while taking Minutes in a corporate meeting?
My words save lives.
I’ve gotten phone calls and messages
late a night
Form people crying over the fact that
somebody “gets” them.
they have words to describe their Depression
someone touched their heart just before they committed to doing something they can never take back.
My. Words. Save. Lives.
Don’t you dare call them priceless.

~ End Piece~

A BIG S/O and thank you to all of the poets who collaborated on this… Destiny Robbins, Ike Torres, Coon The Poet, Russell Cummings & David Demola… and thanks to all of the readers who have supported this blog…

We’re not done tho… Subscribe to my YouTube Channel and be on the look out for the video for this piece… 

Till next time… We’ll be in between the margins…