License $0.00
Free download
Creative Commons license
Commercial uses of this track are NOT allowed.
Adaptations of this track are NOT allowed to be shared.
You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the artist.
Song Info
Genre
Charts
#119,136 today
Peak #1,754
#1,896 in subgenre
Peak #34
Author
c-Kam
Uploaded
July 23, 2007
Track Files
MP3
MP3 1.9 MB • 128 kbps • 2:02
Story behind the song
Poetry--just the sound of it is beautiful.
Lyrics
Poetry’s showing me openings
in clover leafs and sewer’s seeds.
Not even the sky is over me
when I read or write poetry.
Any way the wind’s blowing me,
I follow what the shadow is showing me
and squeeze back because the earth is holding me—
the paper begins unfolding me.
Coalescions converge like and eclipse on the solstice, see?
And once the ink has spoken free
my college-ruled lines are broken tree
branches poking me
with expression like a weeping willowy
water flowing free
and tolling tea
to take a break and have some of me.
Poetry—it’s refreshing and liberating—not even Oprah’s sea
of influence has a hold on me.
I told her she
better shove that money up her ass if she wants me on her broken B-
list of books to read.
I’m a soft-spoken C,
not a token G.
I’m a door with no key,
just a pen—low-key,
totaling
the whole of me
in a black hole of ink.
I stole instinct
from nature’s poetry
and then I sowed a tree.
If you’re gonna write—then go for b-r-o-k-e
and start focusing
on the hocus-pocusing
of pen/magic wand, pull a rabbit out of a black hat and show it to me.
We can smoke some trees
and get stoning, see?
And then to get a group together we’ll start phoning peeps.
I’ll tell a story, listen close to me,
and my whisper can blow us deep
into the ocean’s steam
where hot springs rise like flower growing free.
I keep my meanings hidden with a cloaking sweep
of my pen to make readers turn to code-breaking.
And if you claim to get it all you are so faking.
My poet’s string
will unravel if you twirl your mind over it,
and now you’re dancing with my words so I slow the beat,
and I hold my feet,
in my hands so I can do a back-roll through me.
If you step on my rhymes you’ll have broken feet.
My lines make you concentrate like walking over hot coals in streets.
The glass from the blast of my spoken free-
verses unified lone sharks at sea.
My words manifested vocally—
not just locally,
they travel like radio frequencies.
I wrote the laws like the beat police,
and I beat police
with batons—metaphorically.
My poetry is pouring clean
water to be soaping me
with purified realness of my artistry. Meditate by my poetry,
like a Bodhi tree.
My thoughts are soaked in ink.
Solidified like frozen think.
A brain-freeze from all those colder sheets
of older trees,
drawing rings on my year books ‘til I’m the oldest me.
And I’ll stand as a statue at an open field,
a scare-crowing zeal,
my poet’s steel
is a medal you can’t mettle with—a slow machine.
But my poetry
is well-oiled and well-maintained because it’s close to me.
Hopefully,
the universe has chosen me
to speak my mind through poetry.
And I’ll keep on rhyming ‘til you know it’s me.
And you sit up and finally take note of me.
Comments
The artist currently doesn't allow comments.
