Spit Poet!

Oral traditions are gifts from the wise;

They’re guides at our quest for freedom,

Freedom of the mind.

They’re built in harmonies  echoing beyond our youth.

A tight-lipped past

Now meets crescendo truth.

For my notebook becomes alive every time I spit.

Living, breathing pieces of my soul;

They walk off the page and trick

Fear into thinking it was dead.

Hope resurrected,

In the eyes of every youth that I feel I’m touching.

For this pain

Ain't nothing when you leave it on the stage.

When you can watch it transform into a light

For the masses to claim.

Swearing  that this voice,  has to be laced with something

Other than these emotions.

We story-tellers;

Quoting prophecies,

With every rhythmic  motion.

For I’ll be the martyr;

Sacrifice me on the Mic!

I’ll give my last word for a second chance at life

And you can quote that last rhyme as an ode to the

Cause.

Because I’m spitting for you.

I’m spitting because . . .

Some of these dreams won’t learn how to fly--

Like some of these stars won’t learn how to shine.

So I’ll spit lightning to the darkness,

Hoping they can reach their prime.

Giving life to a race

That was never defined.

For greatness is what you’re on the brink of,

So unveil your eyes.

Doubt is nothing but insecurity--

An abomination to the mind.

I don’t have … We don’t have any time to waste!

So keep spitting!

Until the clock quits ticking;

Until the roof falls off

And the earth caves in.

And even then, they wouldn’t be able to

Muzzle the truth within these …

Oral traditions.

They're gifts from the wise;

Guides at our quest for freedom,

Freedom of the mind.

Each word that I quote is a testament of my survival.

I spit, I am, I live , I breathe this--

Poetry.

Because my soul is not content with being silent.