UntitledByUntitled

My poetry is in the form of rap. My music has no curses or sexual innuendo. This is not for promo. My story is below. Maybe I can help someone who feels like I used to?

soundcloud(dot)com/untitledbyuntitled/sets/untitled-1

A Message For/From Untitled

If you have found this project, either through a physical drop off, or a link that was forwarded to you and you have listened to the contents of the link or device, you may refer to me as Untitled. My close friends who have “known” me for 10+ years are at a loss when listening to this project. That is not to say that I believe myself to be an amazing artist or lyrical virtuoso. The simple fact is I don’t care how good I may or may not be at making music. Though I will not take the time to explain the lines and history behind each song (for that would take a considerable amount of effort and energy which at this moment is not necessary) I will speak to you about my life; I do not know if the person who reads this is an Atheist or one who is currently on a journey of spiritual discovery, ergo I will keep the mentions of my beliefs as well as the mentions of my belief system to an absolute minimum.

I began making music 10 years ago. I was terrible at it, but my friends loved it. Immediately prior to my venture into this entropic art form was an embarrassing, drunken confession of love to my high school crush, Larissa. This would not be so terrible if I had not made the confession while blackout, in a party full of people with whom she was friends with. I was a fool. I was in love with her for months before that. But I never had the courage to tell her. My cowardice was a thorn in my side which I was allowed to remove through music.

Later on I fell in love with a wild soul, Ms. Cruzalegui. She loved rock music and all things macabre. She held me in the middle of her hand, but never allowed her fingers to meet her palm. She was/is beautiful. I was a fool. She bought me a present for my birthday: The incomparable Thelonious Monk’s Blue Note Recordings featuring Round Midnight. On her birthday I bought her nothing. I was a fool. We would argue like we were dating, but she would fantasize of her guitar teacher Michael. I vied for her attention and affection. We walked through Manhattan when we felt like it, made eyes at each other until we were sick, and drank wine from the cup of misery together. We spoke and we walked; until we walked into that damned tunnel between the 5 train and the S train, she put her arm around mines and I pulled away, she made a face like she had swallowed broken glass. I was a fool. My cowardice was a thorn in my side which I was allowed to remove through music. I picked up the pen and my pain melted away, drizzled on the edges of the frightening canvas of silence.

I was allowed to fall in love again, this time with the Dominican Heidi. She was strong and smart and like both of the women that I had fell in love with previously, she was a short firecracker that would fight a grown man at the drop of a hat, consequences be damned. She consumed me. I spent time with her, with my arm around her shoulder walking through Manhattan. Pretending I wasn’t in love with her was a labor of love that I was obsessed with. She was beautiful, naturally, without makeup, she never wore any. She was humble and kind. She accepted me. I was a fool. I still remember the day when she wore all white: white pants, white sweater, white shoes, matching the lovely alabaster at the corner of the windows to her soul. With a bronze charm around her neck she looked like God would take her up to heaven in a chariot of flame at any moment. Would she have said goodbye to me, if he did?

When I went to college we stayed in touch. She would always call me, every week, while I was drowning; seeking to remove emptiness which scraped and gouged out pieces of my spirit with such vigor that I had mistakenly thought it to be pain. And I treated it as such, with sickly sweet delights that only hindered my approach to the limits of what little maturity I was capable of reaching. I was a fool. I would listen to her voice and imagine her somewhere doing something amazing, like curing cancer or solving another ailment of humanity with that big brain of hers. Her calling me while I was emotional about my Uncle’s death and Lucifer’s constant attacks was an annoyance, but I picked up, while within the depths of an inebriation so dour, I thought morning would not come. But I heard her voice and violent beauty sprung forth from phoenix ashes. She asked me if I was in love with her; that night I lied and said no. I was a fool. My cowardice was a thorn in my side which I was allowed to remove through music. I picked up the pen and my pain melted away, drizzled on the edges of the frightening canvas of silence.

I have sought pleasure in the arms of strange women, elixirs, and incense that stole innocence from a well that was never to run dry. I have walked through the ruins of my life, becoming dark and cold. I sought these women from my past and begged them to love me. I have been hungry, homeless, sick, tired, forsaken, abused, beaten, confined, shunned, ignored, ignoble, hated, hateful, all before my 26^th birthday.

As I write this, I feel as though I am one step away from death. I have watched women deny the obvious presence of abuse, until a brain injury has wiped them cleanly from the face of this Earth. I have seen men waste away to bone and strands of muscle incapable of supporting their already declining weight. I have spoken with individuals one night only to hear that they were dead upon the arrival of the following sunrise. I have seen a man have his head blown off by a gun so loud, I hid under my mother’s couch for fear that the echo itself could smite me. I have seen rapists walk free on college campuses and joke about their victims, as if these women were not in pain, as if they too did not bleed, cry, and curse the very life that they felt had been poisoned by a callous brute. Fight.

I’ll say it again. Fight.

If you find this. If on the off chance that you relate to this, if you’ve been hurt, beaten, raped, violated. Fight. For I have seen beauty, I have also been in love, I have also felt the warmth of a woman, I have met good people. I have beheld terrors and I have beheld magnificence. I have been mocked, and I have been lauded. I have been turned away and I have been accepted. Don’t let them beat you down or lie to you and tell you that this is all there is. My death may come in sixty years or it may come next week.

I don’t trust anyone.

I am not here to tell you about Jesus, or give you a link to a religious website. Search, do your research. If you discover in your research that there is no God. Fine. You have sought. If you discover in your research that you want to serve Lucifer. Fine. You have made a choice. Search. Is that not what we will all do anyway?

If you find this and you have a physical apparatus containing my songs and you wish to delete them, that is fine as well.

Should this correspondence reach you through email. I will keep this link up for as long as I can.

I may very well be mocked for this, or made fun of. But that would mean more to me than being praised for this project and this note that I now write to you.

I hope that if you’re reading this, you have the best adventures. I hope that when you fall your bones are not shattered. I hope you embrace love when it comes to you, instead of running from it. I hope that you find peace. I hope that you live well, and that you find someone you love who loves you too. I used to ask people to listen to my songs so that I could be rich and famous. So that I could say that I left a mark. Now all I want is to complete the task I feel as though the HG has given me. Should I give up the ghost. Whenever that may be. Remember my songs. Remember that I lived, loved, lost, fought, and didn’t stop fighting. Thank You.

−Untitled