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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
Monday, July 08, 2002
things have changed a lot in the last year. i too felt like i just needed to get away from everything in order to solve a few things last summer. i'm not sure if i made too much headway last summer, or this year for that fact, but to me it seems inwardly i did, i'm not sure what that my outward actions would agree, but such is life. i know that part of me wanted another getaway, but another part of me feels like i should be semi-responsible and work at the library and earn a minimal amount of money. it would be nice to getaway from things completely, but i do think it is possible to getaway, and still be in the same place.
ahhh. i see, says you and me.
ahhh. i see, says you and me.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
Sunday, June 02, 2002
this is just a poem in progress,
LAST NIGHTby gary
last night i shed the skin of my youth
i watched it fall off into the night
i saw youth grasping for one last breath
saying it's last prayer
in a last ditch attempt to practic religion
can you imagine this striking vision
youth reminded me of 21 years past
and i said all good things don't last
remember all those good times we had
the stuff we didn't tell mom and dad
i said "'ll never forget you
i'm not completely losing you
see were not through
it's just the time has come to add onto you"
but that stubborn youth wouldn't have it that way
another innocent kid shot down in his prime
most figured it was just his time
i guess i had to let youth go, dying in my arms
choices already made and i can't go back
youth was gasping, bleeding, pleading, sreaming
then silent, silence
and the sound of silence has never sounded so great
i saw the old me exposed,
and a new me arose
i'd seen the transition
in so many others who were in my same position
positioned against a world that begs to grow up
growed up to be a man
manned up to be responsible
responsibility has to start some time
everyone says it's time to take responsibility
i wanted to say foget taking it, i'll leave it on the shelf
with that old box of adulthood that cost 9-5
but instead i said youth get back, it's time to get on track
i tried to make college last
but soon it will be in the past
now i'm searching for a completion of youth
a search for my personal truth
part 2
i searched far and high
last night i caught myself looking up at the moonlit sky
i could see the 5 STARS shining bright
i began to hope i was one of those stars
that can show their light to others
and guide them away from the darkness of this world
some weren't given enough light in their youth
and stay blinded when they grow up
someone's got to open up these kid's eyes
so that they can see the light
my light shine bright
and even after my light burns out
you can still see my light for years and years
catch the light
last night
LAST NIGHTby gary
last night i shed the skin of my youth
i watched it fall off into the night
i saw youth grasping for one last breath
saying it's last prayer
in a last ditch attempt to practic religion
can you imagine this striking vision
youth reminded me of 21 years past
and i said all good things don't last
remember all those good times we had
the stuff we didn't tell mom and dad
i said "'ll never forget you
i'm not completely losing you
see were not through
it's just the time has come to add onto you"
but that stubborn youth wouldn't have it that way
another innocent kid shot down in his prime
most figured it was just his time
i guess i had to let youth go, dying in my arms
choices already made and i can't go back
youth was gasping, bleeding, pleading, sreaming
then silent, silence
and the sound of silence has never sounded so great
i saw the old me exposed,
and a new me arose
i'd seen the transition
in so many others who were in my same position
positioned against a world that begs to grow up
growed up to be a man
manned up to be responsible
responsibility has to start some time
everyone says it's time to take responsibility
i wanted to say foget taking it, i'll leave it on the shelf
with that old box of adulthood that cost 9-5
but instead i said youth get back, it's time to get on track
i tried to make college last
but soon it will be in the past
now i'm searching for a completion of youth
a search for my personal truth
part 2
i searched far and high
last night i caught myself looking up at the moonlit sky
i could see the 5 STARS shining bright
i began to hope i was one of those stars
that can show their light to others
and guide them away from the darkness of this world
some weren't given enough light in their youth
and stay blinded when they grow up
someone's got to open up these kid's eyes
so that they can see the light
my light shine bright
and even after my light burns out
you can still see my light for years and years
catch the light
last night
Thursday, May 23, 2002
another graduation post. so i’ve been thinking about my future lately. I’ve reminisced about the times in high school and college where parents, teachers, counselors, friends, and classmates would ask “what do you want to be when you grow up?” I never really had a good answer, at least one that I would say aloud. In my head I would think “I just want to be happy, have a family, and not work, and do the things I love.” yeah I know it’s a dream, but I never really wanted to work, I always felt like I would get some easy job, like rockstar, profession lottery winner, you know something that I wouldn’t really consider work. guess it was too many punk rock songs that talked about not working at a conventional job. anyway I usually answered, “I don’t know”. I felt weird doing this, knowing that others would answer “I’m going to be a doctor, or lawyer” or something to that sucesful future effect. Basically it seemed like they had their future figured out. Now, as my time in school is closing out, I tricked myself into thinking I needed to decide (after four years of still going “I don’t know”) where I wanted my life to head. It seems like the rockstar or lottery dreams are happening, just yet anyways, so I should probably pick a general career goal. To cut a long story short, I decided that I wouldn’t mind teaching. As you can tell by the way I phrased that, my heart isn’tt in teaching 100%. Not that I don’t like kids or teaching, but if given the choice i’m not sure if I would pick teaching over not working at all. Why is that you ask? Simply because it’s weird to accept the fact that I will actually be working (the library doesn’t really count). All I ever wanted to do when I grow up was have fun, read, listen to music, play the bass, travel, hang out and bond and have conversations with friends, watch movies, laugh, cry, think, write, love, and live life. Dreamers can always dream can’t they. But in the meantime I guess I will be a teacher, and i’ve decided to put all my heart and energy into that, so that I can make a difference in kid’s lives. hope this all made sense. check my blog at www.writing-life.blogspot.com for a poem in progress that kinda touches on these issues. should be up before the big party.
Monday, May 20, 2002
fine, i guess i'll make the first contribution...
Reclaimed
by radio shack
This is our 1, 2, 3
This is our first tongue
our second wind
our third eye sight
This is our divine dialect
spoken at 33 1/3 words per minute
backspun and spunback
This is our boom bap
our shclack clack
our taxi-dancehall track
This is our mango mic check
our mixtape made on broken tape decks
our milkcrate masterpiece
our streetcorner cypher beats
This is our colective head bob
our afterschool night jobs
our bamboo beatstreet breakdown
on balikbayan box battlegrounds
spinning to indigenous drum sounds
This is our thrilla in Manila
our 8th wonder agenda
sculpted in ifugao
and grown from the root down
beatboxed all the way to Manilatown
This is our 5Star constellation
spoken to fresh off the beat creations
underground invented for many nations
This is our untelevised revolution
broadcast through diffusion
This is our solution
composed of our elemental contributions
half moment half movement
This is our family tree
bearing the fruits of our history
feeding our struggle to be free
This is our 1, 2, 3.
Reclaimed
by radio shack
This is our 1, 2, 3
This is our first tongue
our second wind
our third eye sight
This is our divine dialect
spoken at 33 1/3 words per minute
backspun and spunback
This is our boom bap
our shclack clack
our taxi-dancehall track
This is our mango mic check
our mixtape made on broken tape decks
our milkcrate masterpiece
our streetcorner cypher beats
This is our colective head bob
our afterschool night jobs
our bamboo beatstreet breakdown
on balikbayan box battlegrounds
spinning to indigenous drum sounds
This is our thrilla in Manila
our 8th wonder agenda
sculpted in ifugao
and grown from the root down
beatboxed all the way to Manilatown
This is our 5Star constellation
spoken to fresh off the beat creations
underground invented for many nations
This is our untelevised revolution
broadcast through diffusion
This is our solution
composed of our elemental contributions
half moment half movement
This is our family tree
bearing the fruits of our history
feeding our struggle to be free
This is our 1, 2, 3.
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