Morning greets me and right out of my bed; the lyrical demon attacks thoughts within my head. I press on to do my chores with a heart full of threads confused like one resurrected —just woke from the dead.
Can you feel me?
While walking to the subway, I watch my back cause on the corner of my street, yeah, they sell much crack it’s sad but it’s life sometimes when you’re black. We live with the racism, the poverty and the lack.
But can you FEEL me?
The pressures of life I elude with my rhymes; it’s the hip hop of my soul, helps me cope with these perilous times; of working yet still broke but compelled not to sell nickel dimes. Just writing my sonnets while still in my prime, surviving the Ghetto amidst violence and crime
NOW, can you feel me?
At the core of my pain, there’s a reality I face, to continue penning my prose to uplift my race to maintain my sanity in this uncertain place; with the lyrical apparition, compelling me to make my case.
There’s the unanswered question that prevails in my mind so I pose it to poets since you are my kind and seem to perceive that I’m in a serious bind. So please respond to me emphatically…Can you, REALLY, FEEL me?