Choices, Pt. 4: Standing Still at the Speed of Life

Okay, we have this thing at my job called “Wednesday’s Neighbor’s”. Now, this is basically an email that’s sent around our floor about every Wednesday, and in it is a bio and picture of one or two employees. Now, after the email is circulated, the bio (along with the picture) is posted in the community kitchen. Now, because mine was done so long ago, I kind of forget that I have one hanging in the kitchen. Of course, I had to big up the two sites I webmaster (this one and illpoets.com); the thing is, I forget that people actually read those things. I do. I may read one while I microwave my pop tarts in the morning, as we don’t have a toaster in the kitchen.
Why did I mention this? Well, a co-worker was nice enough to get me a book of American poets, knowing that I write poetry. The gesture left me speechless. Honestly, for the first five or six months, I kept my head in the sand, and didn’t really give anybody the benefit of the doubt. I’m the type to come in and work, then leave. Being sociable wasn’t one of my priorities. I did realize, after observing her from a distance (as I do with a lot of people), that the lady a nice person. However, all this meant was that I would go outside of my antisocial self and make sure I said goodbye in the evening…which is a stretch for me. I’d like to just come in and do my job. That’s me. Only job where I wasn’t on that tip hard, was when I was teaching.
So anyway, back to being speechless. The gesture, simple in nature…seems mind boggling to me. Here we are, two individuals that smile when we see each other in the hallway, yet haven’t conversed at great length on any occasion. It could mean that my poetry sucks, and she was trying to tell me what real poetry is (I don’t think that was it…just funny to think, though). It could also mean that she went to my site and was moved by my words.
And there it is. I never think about moving people with my words. I just perform, if that’s what you want to call it, simply so people will feel me. I write because I have to; performing is because I’m confident I’ll connect with that one individual, and they’ll feel me. Never thinking that when they do, they could be offended, inspired, breathless…moved. I always have this perception of who will “feel” my work, and who won’t.
So many folks have opinions of how my work is so good, but I just need to not use so much slang, or not curse, or something. It’s always something. This proves that you never know. You never know when someone is feeling you, on any level. I guess that’s why whatever you do, you have to do it fully. You can’t go about things half way. I think I need to refocus on this poetry thing, man. Too long have I allowed this writer’s block to control me; accepted it. Knowing that any day now…any day now it’ll go away. Yet it hasn’t gone away, it’s still here.
I feel good now, yet I feel guilty. I haven’t been drawing like I used to, over bullshit. There are so many things that I could be rich off of right now, yet I ain’t using them to advance myself, or my community right now. Novels that were started conceptually in the tenth grade, yet I only have ten pages written. Comic books and graphic novels to be drawn and written. Cartoons that need voices. SOngs and poems that haven't been written. I need to regroup.
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I Am

I am not a slam artist
And to be perfectly honest
I’m sometimey with spoken word
But regardless of the aforementioned information
I am a poet
So my souls speaks three college ruled lines and phonetics forged with fabercastelle
Sometimes I do the slam thing well
Other times I’m frustrated by the entire process
So sometimes
I feel forced to write a clever piece instead of waiting for the words to come to me
So they don’t feel right once they’re released
Each poetry piece I speak bleeds from the deepest part of God’s mind
I am merely a vessel this is God’s design
I admit I’m blind
The only time I see clearly is when I’m creating art or when I ‘m writing poetry
I
Am flawed
I
Am a dog
And perhaps that’s because of all the times my hearts been scarred
So cynicism and sarcasm are my soul’s secrets service which explains why even those closest to my heart can’t break through my guard
I feel like I’m one tragedy away from losing it all
Collecting all of life’s stress with no one to call
So I walk with God
Which explains why when I’m spittin’ hard my eyes are closed
I’m reliving the moment when the words were given to me because when they were
My eyes were closed
Physically perceiving darkness
But my third iris knows
That the darkness we see is just the spiritual negative
Develop it and the truth’s exposed
So me not taking these snap shots would be a form of negligence
I’m submitting these intrinsic renderings as forensic evidence
So me winning slam’s equates to little or no relevance
Especially when my poetry relates mainly to poets and people with above- average intelligence
If there are five elements to poetry what am I
Half the reason I don’t slam is because of my damn pride
Fightin for a reason to be
I’m trying to believe that somebody in the audience needs to her my poetry
You don’t understand man, see this poetry helps me breathe
Although
Technically it’s not really mine
Most of my material was devised on high
I’m just the go to guy
With esteem so low I’d be willing to go to court to battle The Most for the copyright’s
Claiming ownership rights because I did the physical work when I testify
There’s a true difference between a stylist and a designer
The same difference between an anus and a vagina
So close, but worlds apart
I’m on the verge of taking back my art
Burying my heart like the covenant ark with no geographical charts or maps with ‘X’ marks
I am on the verge of never reciting my words
Only write when inspired or disturbed
Rewind Lee emotionally back to 1993
And that’s my word
My words speak without being spoken
So why speak?
The way lies come out of peoples mouths and stick to their teeth
I figure, why reach?
The word has been written
I never failed
In the library of congress my words are available in Braille
Proving that he who is blind can in fact lead those who see
I am about to take it back to me
No more bourgeois audiences and pretentious hoes
No more fake dudes at poetry shows
No more poets thinking they actually created them poems dolo
No more normal people with abnormal egos
I am this close to never spittin again
Just comin’ out on occasion to support my friends
I am this close
I am this close, ya’ll
And if I quit
Self- forgiveness is something I could eventually convince myself to do
But, my biggest fear,
Is not knowing whether or not
God
Will forgive me too