The Shell

No matter how hard you tried to please others, the reality that the relentless pursuit of the unattainable is just pointless? That is how I feel at the moment. Pointless? At times yes, but ultimately no. Rather, I understand that the truth of the matter is that out of nine out of ten times that you bend over backwards for someone, that tenth effort will always be the focal point of each and every disagreement.

The truth of the matter is, I have been absent from this post for reasons that even my girl, that sees or talks to me on a daily basis fails to understand or see. I struggle with these inner burdens, all the while understanding that the outside world could not care any less about what I am going through. The packages at the job continue to be delivered, the revolving door of Temple University continues to turn and the object of my affection continues to be, both, my best friend and my worst enemy.

So, rather than retreating from the challenge of this game we all call life, I continue to sit at the table as I await to see just what cards destiny decides to give to me. I continue to grind progressively, relentlessly and unabashedly. The problems within the household are the main points of focus, and as what is set to be my last semester in the Owl’s nest approaches, that serves to be my secondary concern. My relationship will be what it is, and, be it temporary or permanent; this is not meant to deter me from this chase of self-worthiness.

While this piece was written while in that state of hopelessness and futility, I understand that my destiny has been placed into my hands, and it is my purpose to make the most of that. Help and concern are appreciated, but ultimately neither are – nor should they be – needed as I gradually fill what remains of me, as this shell.

 

Arborous Eyes

 

I dreamed I was a tree, noble and tall,

   I stood like a king, that would not stumble or fall.

I was was 20-feet tall,

   watching over the land,

thinking only one thing;

  “Isn’t this grand?”

As I watched over the land, and people passing by,

  winter came and it was time for me to die,

In my last seconds, inside I began to mourn,

  but then spring came, and a legend was reborn.

 

The first poem that I ever composed was published in a 1997 publication for the National Library of Poetry. Ironically, it was done for a last-minute English project in presumably the sixth grade, but the verse was so well-received that several people recommended that I send it in for this poetry contest. It made it to the semi-finals (with along with like hundreds of others), but that is about as far as it got. With all that I have endured in the years after this poem, I reassume this dendrological perspective. I have been through much and seen much more, all through my arborous eyes.

 

I’ve dreamed,

I’ve envisioned myself in the role of a tree,

of how I would view life,

what is it that I would see,

how I would respond to the seasonal changes of the metropolis

I’ve dreamed, now I live,

blessed with the presence of,

perceptional visions,

through my arborous eyes,

the wintry atmosphere shifts the neighborhood,

from a nigga’s paradise to a desolate ghost town,

sub-zero temperatures engulf the city,

a harsh silence to the common-day violence,

broken by gusts of cold and strong winds

and spaces of sporadic snowfall,

blanket the streets and the cars that inhabit them,

which inspire the children to run rampant,

playing freely amidst a hoary habitat all to themselves,

nighttime arrives, and they return home,

even those whom walk by do so peacefully,

attributes of cemetery stillness,

as the neighborhood is at its most peaceful interval,

the home is preferred over all else,

broken by an occasional trip out of the house

for this season,

despite its unforgiving temperatures,

all is calm and all is serene;

perceptional visions,

through my arborous eyes,

the dawn of the spring time,

plants of flowers bloom,

as souls yawn in unison anxious to see June again,

this season provides the preview of what is to come,

rainfall replenishes the elements of the neighborhood

as everyone returns to their roles in positions ,

children play ball in the streets until nightfall,

high rollers and young mothers with baby strollers,

tricks, chicks and players, all dressed in less layers,

hustlers post on corners where they’re seen the most,

cops patrol a city no longer under their control,

players cruise around,

as a showcase on wheels,

pursuing any and all women that catch their eyes,

rubbing the hairs on their chin in curiosity,

licking their bottom lips with the salivation of lust,

ladies gallivant the streets of the metropolis,

attending to their daily obligations,

subconsciously vying for attention,

unfortunately attracting the wrong kind,

a vigorous cycle, ironic, but true,

for this season

the hood is more energetic,

though its life has not yet peaked,

I see both day and night, as both collaborate,

for this season,

the spring time,

a return to life

 perceptional visions,

through my arborous eyes,

the gift and the curse of the summertime,

the good days of June,

children play with no relent or intent to stay still,

high rollers and hustlers return to the grind,

young mothers sit on porches alongside other women,

as bellies show the after-effects of wintertime escapades,

the fireworks of July,

Ricans flare firecrackers on the horizon,

as blacks create their noise with firearms,

families mourn and vow revenge for the death of their children,

no silence or end to this tumultuous violence,

the dog days of August,

heat waves of Hell-like temperatures,

children run free, doused with the waters of fire hydrants

the rest of the neighborhood remains dormant,

as all wait in anticipation for sunset and for nightfall

perceptional visions,

through my arborous eyes,

autumnal symptoms arrive,

whilst residual elements of the summertime still linger,

children return to what seems to be

yet another year of a grueling, academic grind,

pimps, players, hustlers in smaller multiples maintain their roles

as suppliers to the plight of the district,

fueled off beef and broccoli platters,

as corner stores serve as the chefs of their drives,

young mothers slowly, but steadily lose their procreations

to both the illustrious, as well as

the harsh aspects of the ghetto metropolis,

niggas unable to fully become men,

bitches continually lost in the maze of the system,

the violence gradually decreases, though it never ceases,

while a select few hold on to the summer,

others await with melancholic anticipation

for a return to the harsh chills of the wintertime

for this season,

is an equinox of the past and of the future

 perceptional visions,

through my arborous eyes,

as I resemble a tree,

which stands tall in the midst of any season,

bearing American fruit from African roots,

planted in the center of a concrete jungle and an asphalt forest,

it is in my nature to serve as this role,

and as much as certain aspects of the community sadden me,

I understand despite this, certain things are beyond my control

however,

unlike a tree,

planted by the water,

I shall be moved,

moved by my own individual ambition to grow,

moved by the struggle of my people,

moved by the words of my lyrical counterparts,

moved by real and true support,

moved by doubts and skepticism

unlike a tree

planted by the water,

I have been moved,

though I cannot determine the solution,

I can be one to make it apparent what and where the problems are,

though I am merely one man,

I understand my words may affect the generations of my children,

an individual commitment for the better,

better for ourselves and our loved ones,

without a compromise of the health of our own community,

will equate into a collective improvement of our situations

life has planted the seed,

the rain continues to fall,

the time has come,

to grow,

mentally,

emotionally,

physically

to grow,

all this derived from,

 the natural presence of,

perceptional visions,

through my,

arborous eyes.

 

 

Sources

Andrews, Raymond A. “My Dream.” The Nightfall of Diamonds. Ed. Melisa S. Mitchell. Owings Mills: Library of Congress, 1997. 338.

Extermination

July 2^nd marked a day that is a reminder of why friends are invaluable to us, and why more often than not ex-girlfriends can never be that. On another note, I almost lost my best friend yesterday and this post may have applied to her; I am glad that I didn’t and that it doesn’t. This verse reminds me of this past birthday, as my birthday reminds me of why I composed this verse.

 

Silence

Words.

DOWNLOAD:  Nas – Silent Murder

 

Insignia

I wrote about the conception of beauty earlier on this web site in regards to how unique my view of it is from the general populace. This time, I ask the question of how a woman defines herself. By my definition, she is already physically attractive; but there is always more than what meets the eyes. So, this verse is essentially a question that I ask everyone that I find myself initially attracted to. How they not only answer the question, but also feel about it is one of many determinants to how far her and I can go.

 

Three Sides to a Story of a Black Girl Lost

summary written circa 2006:

When I began scribing this verse, I was initially going in a different direction with it. But, then I thought of a friend of mine, who sought out to find the very relief that she’s been unable to find within herself. Unfortunately, she has been going about it in all of the wrong ways and for all of the wrong reasons. Nonetheless, with me fighting somewhat of a different battle with the same objective, her story still inspired me to write. If you understood where I was going with this initially, you would probably appreciate the irony of how it all came together, as well as the fact that I could never see it being composed any differently now. I only hope that this tale may provide some sort of assistance in going about finding that love within ourselves that others may add to, but will never be able to replace.

Love is a crazy emotion, which leaves us with varied addictions towards it dependent on how deep we fall for one another. At times, we strive so hard to maintain it that we surprise ourselves, feeling, thinking and acting in ways that we would never fathom previously. Truth be told, love is the unveiling of a harsh reality that few of us know about, and none of us accept: we, as humans, have no idea of what we are and are not capable of. To know oneself is to approximate one’s own character, and try to convince others of a certainty that is not in our nature to validly have.

The following is a tale of Rae’Lynn, a young girl in age and in mind. Needless to say, she had a rough, tumultuous upbringing. Then, she had… well, I suppose that it would be best if I did not spoil the details of the piece. It is written from three perspectives: his, hers and reality. These are the three sides to a story of a black girl lost.

 

Masseur

 

 (This piece was originally titled “Love is a Masseuse.”)

Sometimes, life wears you down and tires you out. Stress and tension easily build up when a woman has a lot on her place. Women work hard (note: women, not females) and handle business. My admiration and respect goes out to the beautiful, black queens of the world that do what they have to do with little to no help from anyone else. Granted, men work hard too, but this is not about them.

Nothing is better than coming home, after a long day at work, and being able to stretch out and lay in the soft comfort of that bed. But, sometimes a massage serves as the extra incentive – like the cherry on top of a freshly blended vanilla milkshake. To have a loved one physically ease that stress and rub that one spot on your back, or that constantly sore shoulder is priceless. Moreover, no, not that forced, if-I-give-you-a-back-rub-will-you-shut-the-fuck-up massage. I speak of that deep, sensual, there-is-no-where-else-to-be-so-you-might-as-well-get-comfortable massage. If done right, a man’s touch has the ability to drive a woman crazy (or so I hear).

However, this is not really about sex. It is about relief, and that relief can come in the physical form, or in the metaphorical sense. A man such as me has the ability to provide her the sensual relief of a massage, without laying a finger on her body. Allow me to set the scene. Just imagine a candlelit room, as a hinted scent of apple-cinnamon hits the air. Quincy Jones’ “Secret Garden” plays in the background. The a/c is on, and it slightly chills the room. But, it does nothing more than reduces the heat felt from the warm, massage oils as hands explore the back, the neck and the shoulders. And as the music still plays, softly but audibly, in the background, I speak these words to you and recite this verse.

DOWNLOAD: Quincy Jones et. al – The Secret Garden*

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A Miraculous Beauty of Encouraging Radiance

DISCLAIMER: if it feels discomforting to read, then don’t read it. Period.

Composed circa 2008.

 

Ghost in the Bedroom

Letting go is the hardest thing to do, and nothing is harder to bear than the initial days, weeks and/or months of withdrawal from familiarity. I have always contended that the beginning of a true love affair is the cancer to a friendship. I hear tell that this is not accurate, but I will believe otherwise when I see otherwise. The more attached you were to the lost love, the deeper the remorse and the feeling of loneliness. I can attest to that shit. It is utterly gut wrenching, to the point where you just sit and think to yourself, “fuck. What now?” Even worse, everything that you do on a daily basis reminds you of your ex(es).  Every corner, every restaurant, every movie theater sends a light chill down your back and puts a grimace on your face.

They say that once you allow someone to be a center figure in your life, you begin to lose your personal identity. It goes from R.J. to R.J. ampersand (blank), (blank) and I, etc. When that other person has come and gone, it is like they are gone, but their presence is still felt in a ghostly essence. This verse is a reflection of that presence of a lost one still being seen, heard and felt.

 

Let Me Be

I decided to leave it written as it was when it was first composed. No more words are necessary to describe it, but I will provide a few. Accept me as I am, or let me go for what I never will be. This applies to EVERYONE currently in my existence, with no exceptions. I am RJ. Nothing more and nothing less.