deepundergroundpoetry.com

Back to the Pad

And so, we’re back to the pad like
sandboxes in summertime, writing silent night
on shadowed walls waiting, we’re waiting
for that special place.  It’s a special place,
it’s a special place…..
It’s that palace of pleasure providing the excavation of endorphins
to the release of synaptic, like snapping fingers forcing its way,
back, to my eardrums.
(you see) Notebook scratches are the best sound,
when I become baffled by buffoonery, and bad habits, that are
habitats for habitual haters who hold intelligent, respect, and honor
hostage.
No longer a victim as long as tree and lead be bound
one around the other; relating pen to pad, like sister to brother,
word to writer and auntie to uncle
No longer covered or captured, the rapture didn’t release my corpse
to the four corners of the earth….
So with pen in hand, we parade the page, with parables of passion and peace,
plentiful palates of delightful ease; Remembering
right turns that took us on tantalizing travels through the course of time,
and the space of 8 ½  by 11, inches—zebra-like; blue lines hold legible lacerated rhymes of
Righteousness—Us all up in this…
This riding the road of rhythm, rockin’, not dockin’ like
undocumented workers drillin and droppin’ fiber optics irises in your dwelling,
like the Brown Bomber knocking out Max Smelling,
you see the head swelling is a sign that
the sickness has passed, so man your pages sharpen your pens, and lets
perform these words like heated glass….Shine that
third eye and return it to the past, gather your
Griot recording skills and re-state, re-state, re-state
the facts!
We are the builders of pyramids, mother and father to civilization, got dedication
to our communities because can’t nobody relate.
We release our melanin to the masses of blacks, our DNA is African, and
ain’t nothin’ stopping that—
From your theories on Ham, to your prison industrial complex, we shall
move and stick, fight and resist, by pen or fist baby we are the….
shhhhh…..
So back to beginnings unbound by day’s delight,
we are gathering might in third sight, and midnights while dispersing the depression to get things right.
We are penning profits without being profitable,
performing to the pinnacle
while exploding on the exploration of the earth;
when so called masters were missionaries, and now they make amends through ground-work.
As underground efforts are exposed through emails and social networks…
(you see) the big three networks will never be ready for this type of truth,
so I grab my pen and scribble in my roots, my roots, my roots.
Written by poet402
Published
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