The sound
This is the sound x 4
You are the sound
I am the sound
We are the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound of a drum beating
a DJ spinning
a new beginning
the third eye blinking
This is the sound of the crowds chanting
and the sound of a poet ranting
This is the sound of a heart broken
and the sound of the words that go unspoken
This is the sound of a ghetto kid dyin
and sound of his sad mamma cryin
This is the sound of revolution at all costs
and the sound of all the years lost
This is the sound of activism
and the sound of individualism
This is the sound that leads the way
and the sound of today
This is the sound of a better tomorrow
and the sound of learning to change and grow
This is the sound of how we get down
and the sound of the tree that falls when no one is around
This is the sound, yeah this is the sound
Somehow I knew the words to a song I’d never heard
The speakers ring out loud the words we inherit from our ancestors
Although we create our own dialect and slang it into the mic
We are really cyphering stories passed on through generations
We make it fresh, insert our own beats
We express our experiences
We update the past
We live for the sound, and the sound lives for us
We are the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound of the 5 star collective
and the sound of the new massive
This is the sound of the next movement
and the sound of struggling to pay rent
This is the sound of the empire when it falls
and the sound of the mic checks, the yes, yes, ya’lls
This is the sound of the war time bomb drops
and the sound of the racist cops
This is the sound of paying back student loans
and the sound blasting on your headphones
This is the sound of the revolution televised
and the sound of getting the masses organized
This is the sound of finding your roots
and the sound of defining your own truth
This is the sound of all the bad times
and the sound of all the good times
This is the sound for all my sisters and brothers
the sound for all of those who consider themselves the others
This is the sound of change
and the sound of thoughts that rearrange
This is the sound of the government laughing
This is the sound of one hand clapping
You are the sound.
I am the sound.
We are the sound.
This is the sound.
Thursday, January 23, 2003
Verbal Graffiti
Tonight is a celebration of life.
Tonight is a celebration of the words we live, breath, and write.
Tonight is a celebration of spoken word poetry.
Tonight is a celebration of verbal graffiti.
We speak the music of everyday life
The beat of the heart
The tempo of work
The rhythm of love
The voice of hope
We ascribe words to emotions
And proclaim the power of thought
We scribble funny stories
Or write about collected memories or forgotten histories
And turn life’s chaos into beautiful spoken word symphonies
We can be on that serious tip, like:
But other times my lips scream a song,
That my heart long forgot
And as I try to hum along to a long lost song
My tongue covers centuries of muted oppression
And I find purpose for this piece
See no matter what the topic
I always sing this song,
For my ancestors long gone
For the ones who help on strong
For the ones who slavery and colonization did wrong
I sing this song for my family
The ones who love and support me
The ones who moved here for me
I sing this song for my friends
The ones who and are here now and till the ends
See poets, we be the word selecta’s
We be the everyday life collectors
See sometimes we are that creative revolutionary spark
Sometimes we are that thing you just thought
Sometimes we are that childhood memory
Sometimes we are that sacred love story
I whisper so loud you can feel it!
Yet some people say this poetry we speak ain’t got no relevance
You say you still don’t identify
Even if you feel it, you probably sit there, dis and deny
But thats alright cos-
I spray verbal graffiti all over the walls of your mind
I write for everyone
I spray for you
I spray for me
I spray poetry
The world is my mural
I write for the uptowns
I write for the downtowns
I write for Gardena, my hood
I write for that Beverly Hills 90210 kinda neighborhood
I spray for the punk rocks
I spray for the hip-hops
I spray for the dreadlocks
I spray for the haves, but mainly the have-nots
I write for my sisters, and I write for my brothers
Whether they family or not
I write what I know,
So myself and others can grow
I write what I see,
Whether it be success or poverty
I write cos everyday we struggle
Everyday we succeed
Everyday we fail
Everyday we rise
Everyday we fall
I write cos there’s a war
I write cos we ain’t gonna take it no more
No matter what we gotta keep on keepin’ on
We gotta keep on movin’ on
We gotta keep on dreamin’ on
We gotta keep on teachin’ on
We gotta keep on livin’ on
And I promise to keep on sprayin’ on
Tonight I write to celebrate life
Tonight we spray verbal graffiti to celebrate life
Tonight is a celebration of life.
Tonight is a celebration of the words we live, breath, and write.
Tonight is a celebration of spoken word poetry.
Tonight is a celebration of verbal graffiti.
We speak the music of everyday life
The beat of the heart
The tempo of work
The rhythm of love
The voice of hope
We ascribe words to emotions
And proclaim the power of thought
We scribble funny stories
Or write about collected memories or forgotten histories
And turn life’s chaos into beautiful spoken word symphonies
We can be on that serious tip, like:
But other times my lips scream a song,
That my heart long forgot
And as I try to hum along to a long lost song
My tongue covers centuries of muted oppression
And I find purpose for this piece
See no matter what the topic
I always sing this song,
For my ancestors long gone
For the ones who help on strong
For the ones who slavery and colonization did wrong
I sing this song for my family
The ones who love and support me
The ones who moved here for me
I sing this song for my friends
The ones who and are here now and till the ends
See poets, we be the word selecta’s
We be the everyday life collectors
See sometimes we are that creative revolutionary spark
Sometimes we are that thing you just thought
Sometimes we are that childhood memory
Sometimes we are that sacred love story
I whisper so loud you can feel it!
Yet some people say this poetry we speak ain’t got no relevance
You say you still don’t identify
Even if you feel it, you probably sit there, dis and deny
But thats alright cos-
I spray verbal graffiti all over the walls of your mind
I write for everyone
I spray for you
I spray for me
I spray poetry
The world is my mural
I write for the uptowns
I write for the downtowns
I write for Gardena, my hood
I write for that Beverly Hills 90210 kinda neighborhood
I spray for the punk rocks
I spray for the hip-hops
I spray for the dreadlocks
I spray for the haves, but mainly the have-nots
I write for my sisters, and I write for my brothers
Whether they family or not
I write what I know,
So myself and others can grow
I write what I see,
Whether it be success or poverty
I write cos everyday we struggle
Everyday we succeed
Everyday we fail
Everyday we rise
Everyday we fall
I write cos there’s a war
I write cos we ain’t gonna take it no more
No matter what we gotta keep on keepin’ on
We gotta keep on movin’ on
We gotta keep on dreamin’ on
We gotta keep on teachin’ on
We gotta keep on livin’ on
And I promise to keep on sprayin’ on
Tonight I write to celebrate life
Tonight we spray verbal graffiti to celebrate life
Yes, this is from that magnetic poetry in a box thing, but so what.
Did you search and find it this time?
Fighting the moment
I say grow, live, listen, think, compare
Understand
Always positive
So find it
the
Light
the
Sound
the
Music
Find it
* Life
*Soul
*Culture
*Art
*Politics
And let your world know my world.
And I'll let my world know yours.
Did you search and find it this time?
Fighting the moment
I say grow, live, listen, think, compare
Understand
Always positive
So find it
the
Light
the
Sound
the
Music
Find it
* Life
*Soul
*Culture
*Art
*Politics
And let your world know my world.
And I'll let my world know yours.
ONE
It’s not that one I’m worried about
Yeah I believe in that one love, one life, one people, one world, one mic, kind of life
All those one’s don’t got me worried
See I’m worried bout that other 9 outta 10
That won’t feel this
Or won’t see this
Or won’t hear this
Or won’t live this
They won’t hear the word drop
They’re only worried about that rise to the top
It’s that other 9/10 that’ll ask what are you?
Instead of who are you?
It’s that other 9/10 that’ll say “damn your hood is ghetto”
Instead of trying to get to know you
It’s that other 9/10 that try to keep you down
Instead of helping us achieve that crown
It’s that other 9/10 that discriminate because of the colored cover of this book
Instead of giving you a friendly look
It’s that other 9/10 that’s plotting your demise
Instead of helping us organize
It’s that other 9/10 that follow the MTV/BET wanna-be bougie’s
Instead of working on being free
It’s that other 9/10 that use schools to dictate the laws of the state
Instead of trying to really educate
We got 9 vs. 1
So theres a lot of work to be done
Cos to me that nine-tenths don’t make any sense
But we are that one
You one
I’m one
Until we’ve won/one together
One love
One sister
One brother
One movement together
You feel that
You feel this ONE
It’s not that one I’m worried about
Yeah I believe in that one love, one life, one people, one world, one mic, kind of life
All those one’s don’t got me worried
See I’m worried bout that other 9 outta 10
That won’t feel this
Or won’t see this
Or won’t hear this
Or won’t live this
They won’t hear the word drop
They’re only worried about that rise to the top
It’s that other 9/10 that’ll ask what are you?
Instead of who are you?
It’s that other 9/10 that’ll say “damn your hood is ghetto”
Instead of trying to get to know you
It’s that other 9/10 that try to keep you down
Instead of helping us achieve that crown
It’s that other 9/10 that discriminate because of the colored cover of this book
Instead of giving you a friendly look
It’s that other 9/10 that’s plotting your demise
Instead of helping us organize
It’s that other 9/10 that follow the MTV/BET wanna-be bougie’s
Instead of working on being free
It’s that other 9/10 that use schools to dictate the laws of the state
Instead of trying to really educate
We got 9 vs. 1
So theres a lot of work to be done
Cos to me that nine-tenths don’t make any sense
But we are that one
You one
I’m one
Until we’ve won/one together
One love
One sister
One brother
One movement together
You feel that
You feel this ONE
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
search results for the word "poetry" using Googlism:
poetry is passion
poetry is for real people
poetry is a political act"
poetry is complete nonsense
poetry is a destructive force by stevens
poetry is the drug of choice
poetry is a sudden process of verbal compression
poetry is the sudden process of verbal compression
poetry is powerful
poetry is plucking at the
poetry is for poets
poetry is poetess sondra faye's official site of
poetry is for everybody
poetry is a very complex thing
poetry is fun
poetry is found in life
poetry is about onelivingthing
poetry is increasing
poetry is banned
poetry is this?
poetry is passion
poetry is for real people
poetry is a political act"
poetry is complete nonsense
poetry is a destructive force by stevens
poetry is the drug of choice
poetry is a sudden process of verbal compression
poetry is the sudden process of verbal compression
poetry is powerful
poetry is plucking at the
poetry is for poets
poetry is poetess sondra faye's official site of
poetry is for everybody
poetry is a very complex thing
poetry is fun
poetry is found in life
poetry is about onelivingthing
poetry is increasing
poetry is banned
poetry is this?
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Melted Crayon
Life is like a box of crayons,
you never know what you’re gonna get
You got you’re black crayons
white crayons
yellow crayons
brown crayons
We are all crayon colors , different shades of lifes color spectrum
We usually hang around familiar colors, our sister and brothers
But sometimes we mix and combine to form new shades
Some are more accepted
While others feel socially rejected
Early on we are identified
Differences often magnified
Most you don’t have to look far
To realize what color you are
When someone asks who you are
You know what to say and do
And when I was a kid I used to envy you
See I remember in grade three
How much I dreaded doing a family tree
Embarrassed I didn’t know my families history
Kid’s would wonder, what’s his story?
I’ve always sworn my story wasn’t the norm
I told them the truth, as much as I knew it
As much as my grandparents and parents told it
But no matter how many times I practiced it
My explanation came out kinda sounding like this
“See my family is this.”
“But really my father is this, this, and a little bit of this.”
“And my mother is this, this, that, and a bit of that.”
I knew that they heard
Cos they always uttered these familiar words
hmm, interesting, never met one of you, wow confusing, I knew you were something
Yeah I’m something!
It’s better than identifying with nothing, I did that for so long
I’m still not sure of it all, of what makes me all
Some stuff my family can’t or choose not to recall
I tried to research my history and made up this story
The black crayon in me was a victim of slavery
Taken from Africa to Belize over 200 years ago
To cut down that valuable brown mahogany tree
The white crayon in my probably had a hand in this slavery
The brown Mayan crayon in me
Is a hero for first using the zero,
But this same zero is exactly what they got from the white crayon
For the use of their Mayan homeland
A land and people left used, confused, and bruised
The other brown crayon in me was also brought to Belize
Under the guise of being free
Far from India, his or her homeland
Then made to work on the white crayon’s stolen land
See My ancestor’s history is a forgotten mystery,
Wrapped up in a distant memory,
I live a stolen history,
Forging a new story
Defining my own census category
I’m a product of an English colony
That finally became free in the 1980’s
Many don’t realize that it left some of it’s grandkids with no identity
The only way I can describe the blood that flows in me
The skin that represents me
Is like a box of crayons
That melted and mixed under the hot tropical sun
And I am it’s creation
And I am it’s new son
I am that melted crayon
Life is like a box of crayons,
you never know what you’re gonna get
You got you’re black crayons
white crayons
yellow crayons
brown crayons
We are all crayon colors , different shades of lifes color spectrum
We usually hang around familiar colors, our sister and brothers
But sometimes we mix and combine to form new shades
Some are more accepted
While others feel socially rejected
Early on we are identified
Differences often magnified
Most you don’t have to look far
To realize what color you are
When someone asks who you are
You know what to say and do
And when I was a kid I used to envy you
See I remember in grade three
How much I dreaded doing a family tree
Embarrassed I didn’t know my families history
Kid’s would wonder, what’s his story?
I’ve always sworn my story wasn’t the norm
I told them the truth, as much as I knew it
As much as my grandparents and parents told it
But no matter how many times I practiced it
My explanation came out kinda sounding like this
“See my family is this.”
“But really my father is this, this, and a little bit of this.”
“And my mother is this, this, that, and a bit of that.”
I knew that they heard
Cos they always uttered these familiar words
hmm, interesting, never met one of you, wow confusing, I knew you were something
Yeah I’m something!
It’s better than identifying with nothing, I did that for so long
I’m still not sure of it all, of what makes me all
Some stuff my family can’t or choose not to recall
I tried to research my history and made up this story
The black crayon in me was a victim of slavery
Taken from Africa to Belize over 200 years ago
To cut down that valuable brown mahogany tree
The white crayon in my probably had a hand in this slavery
The brown Mayan crayon in me
Is a hero for first using the zero,
But this same zero is exactly what they got from the white crayon
For the use of their Mayan homeland
A land and people left used, confused, and bruised
The other brown crayon in me was also brought to Belize
Under the guise of being free
Far from India, his or her homeland
Then made to work on the white crayon’s stolen land
See My ancestor’s history is a forgotten mystery,
Wrapped up in a distant memory,
I live a stolen history,
Forging a new story
Defining my own census category
I’m a product of an English colony
That finally became free in the 1980’s
Many don’t realize that it left some of it’s grandkids with no identity
The only way I can describe the blood that flows in me
The skin that represents me
Is like a box of crayons
That melted and mixed under the hot tropical sun
And I am it’s creation
And I am it’s new son
I am that melted crayon
Monday, October 07, 2002
Wednesday, August 28, 2002
ibadila
by mike
Sometimes I think I speak a different language
Because when I converse
I must convert my words
And yet I still go unheard
When I dialogue in my dialect instead
I get rejected
And when all is said and done
I still have to say “you know what I’m sayin, son?”
But my sons and moons don’t shine
Because they can’t even understand my rhymes
And I’m reminded of the times I tried to make sense
And couldn’t even come up with a dime
Or a penny for my thoughts
And it makes me think that maybe I speak a different language
Because when I speak out
My words are pushed backed in
As if my thoughts were my sin
And my only redemption
Is a confession upon the altar of altered alphabets and colonized dialects
But in the church of choked English
My prayers will go unanswered
I refuse to worship the “holy” texts
Embedded in dictionary sets
That proclaim the word of Webster.
Instead their words are swallowed
Because I refuse to spit in their contra-diction
Or to sell their fiction
Instead I slang back tradition
I spit back my writtens
Sit back and listen
Or stand in the circle as we de-cypher our visions
Decoding our dreams
Breaking through with the beatbox
Speaking in tongues
And communicating through hip-hop
If my consonants are commitments
Let my letters be a-vowels
If alone I am unheard,
Let my people be my power
If ignorance holds me down
Let the truth be my elevator
And if these lyrics are my language
Let the mic be my translator.
by mike
Sometimes I think I speak a different language
Because when I converse
I must convert my words
And yet I still go unheard
When I dialogue in my dialect instead
I get rejected
And when all is said and done
I still have to say “you know what I’m sayin, son?”
But my sons and moons don’t shine
Because they can’t even understand my rhymes
And I’m reminded of the times I tried to make sense
And couldn’t even come up with a dime
Or a penny for my thoughts
And it makes me think that maybe I speak a different language
Because when I speak out
My words are pushed backed in
As if my thoughts were my sin
And my only redemption
Is a confession upon the altar of altered alphabets and colonized dialects
But in the church of choked English
My prayers will go unanswered
I refuse to worship the “holy” texts
Embedded in dictionary sets
That proclaim the word of Webster.
Instead their words are swallowed
Because I refuse to spit in their contra-diction
Or to sell their fiction
Instead I slang back tradition
I spit back my writtens
Sit back and listen
Or stand in the circle as we de-cypher our visions
Decoding our dreams
Breaking through with the beatbox
Speaking in tongues
And communicating through hip-hop
If my consonants are commitments
Let my letters be a-vowels
If alone I am unheard,
Let my people be my power
If ignorance holds me down
Let the truth be my elevator
And if these lyrics are my language
Let the mic be my translator.
Monday, August 05, 2002
random thought... i feel bad for not really saying anything here lately, so...
time and time again i've heard people say that love is timeless.... that once you truly love someone, you will love them forever... you'll always have a place for that person in your heart. things might go badly between you and that person, and you might "fall out" of love, or it might fade away over time, but no matter what, that love will never completely go away. love is everlasting.
i would honestly have to say that that is probably the worst thing about love. a person can step all over you, treat you like complete shit, you can hate them more than peas (oooh and i fuckin hate peas), but in the end, if you ever really loved that person, you will still love them until your last days, even if your last words consist of curses aimed at that very same person. thats how you know for sure that you love someone, when you can reach the point where you wish you had never met that person, but at the same time can't imagine not knowing him or her. thats what defines love sometimes.
alrite i'm tired (its probably obvious in my writing), gnite folks
time and time again i've heard people say that love is timeless.... that once you truly love someone, you will love them forever... you'll always have a place for that person in your heart. things might go badly between you and that person, and you might "fall out" of love, or it might fade away over time, but no matter what, that love will never completely go away. love is everlasting.
i would honestly have to say that that is probably the worst thing about love. a person can step all over you, treat you like complete shit, you can hate them more than peas (oooh and i fuckin hate peas), but in the end, if you ever really loved that person, you will still love them until your last days, even if your last words consist of curses aimed at that very same person. thats how you know for sure that you love someone, when you can reach the point where you wish you had never met that person, but at the same time can't imagine not knowing him or her. thats what defines love sometimes.
alrite i'm tired (its probably obvious in my writing), gnite folks
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