This goes out to all you amateurs: Your problem is you write with a pencil and a pad, or a computer on your lap with a dictionary, encyclopedia, and thesaurus like a map down a literary path, literally rhyming cat with hat and gat and this and that but that shit’s wack. Me, I write often from my mother's coffin.
I’m inside this box writing story problems, but my problem is I can never solve them.
Example: 1967, Girl 1 is born. 1985, Girl 2 is born. Girl 2 Is the seed of Girl 1. Girl 1 never grows up. Girl 2 never becomes a mom. In 2010, which Girl Is a woman? I’m guessing the objective is to answer The question it’s all way too subjective. This wasn’t what I expected. Because I am Girl 2 and Girl 1 used to be my best friend But if life was a million dollar question, my life lines not Picking up and I just keep calling. I just keep writing.
I write these scriptures like we still Christian Straight from the belly of her addiction to bad food and Alcohol so when I spit its sickening. I write from a cell In Idaho’s state prison where my big brother is sitting Writing his life story like its his reason for living. I write From inside the paint wherehe used to dunk on heads. He shoulda Been a star but like so many brothers he’s a convict instead. So I’m all in his head. I’m all in his body. How does a caged Beast feel? Like a monster probably. So I feel like You can never stop me.
Sometimes I dream verses from my niece's crib. Gentle journeys into the life she might live. I write like there's a fight for a bright future in my pen. And I might just win if I can convince my baby sister that loses and wins are more than stars and spins. And life is more than boys and friends, tattoos and trends. She’s convinced or pretends life is contingent upon her light skin. They be hatin. So she fights them. And I’m writing from the other side Of this black girl’s fist, pulling out tracks. And I never miss. I never say I write from my heart because I've literally never been there. I don’t know what it feels like to dig my pen in my left breast, puncture the muscle that pumps blood and the organ that makes breath.
Amateur please. I write from places I’ve actually been.
I write smoking a black until the plastic melts looking at myself in the bathroom mirror recycling smoke from mouth to nose to mouth. And Back out. Remembering back when. Back then I blacked out what happened but now whispers shout to be let out. A quiet girl refuses to doubt her own voice. Refuses to believe it was her choice. Or bow down to you boys.
Please amateur copy. That’s your job. See, inspiration begets Imitation. But your representations will never Capture my imagination. Or most importantly pass the Highest evaluation, which is dependent on how You respond to confrontation.
I write from the front of the bus with Ms. Parks refusing to get up. Outnumbered refusing to give up, I spit shots back at the cops that let off 50 shots at that unarmed male black. I trace the graves of slaves who gave a damn about their names so when I call my brother "nigga" I remember his pain. To be specific, I tag hieroglyphics on the sides of pyramids so I never forget where the beginning is.
I got one poem spread out in four different places Cause I been writing on my blackberry, my lap top and two pieces Of paper. And I guess that makes 5 cause I been meaning to Write down this one line…
Amateur please. Release your subjects from this music box that has got us all singing backwards. Amateur please. Stop speaking like all of the words are in your head when they never belonged to you in the first place. Stop writing like you can finish that sentence whenever you feel like it and when you don't feel it please don't still write it. Amateur please. You don’t have the personality to MC. Amateur please. You don’t have the punctuality to beat me. I heard you tell your fans you wish you could be me. Amateur please. You don’t even have the vision to see me. Get clarity before you talk to me please. Amateur go figure out why that last line you wrote was a joke. And why your spoken word poem made you choke. Why your voice came from no deeper than your throat. Why you see yourself as less. Less than Gwendolyn and Langston. Less than Saul and Nikki. Less than me. When you are not an amateur anymore. You are me. And you are FREE.
(2011)
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