Beat box soap box
And I shoulda packed a lunch box
I wanted to write out loud
No one would listen
Wanted to use the word 'and'
But...
I Didn't speak the language
So there it is
Lost in a room that lacks focus
Bogus
And that words out dated
People get...
And they get and they get
Frustrated
Eyes dialated by sound
Profound
Yet to be
Found u in my thoughts filtrating
Sweating
Cuz it's hot
Forgot why I came here
Near
To you
I'd rather be
Pause
...
You?
A girl with a smile and so much more
But what for?
When there are rooms that need her and she can't be here
We can't be near
It's so stupid
Hot
Why not love her
Why not call her
Why not have her
Hoping my poetry doesn't scare her
This one's NOT public
It's just found space
In a world o painted buildings
(A plot to be buried in prior to repose)
And this is no interviewic response-
It's a check in to expose
A chunk of my heart's voice
Where do the bums sleep?
Why do we do art?
Why come we here?
I'm chillin
No.
Sweatin
By some documentary Film makers
That take things
Way to serious
I blame them
For killing me
Cuz
This mystery
Us
Is Mysterious
Thus
My brothers been drinking
And I've been thinking
About her
Who's fault is that
But before I dote
Spark, spittle, and spat
Let's wax prematurely
Note:
This may be a trife early
But I gotta go
Why?
I don't know
So I'll point my camera and blame
And hang my voice up with shame
We'll get the next one
Two love notes:
"Goodnight pretty girl
Why can'tya
Be here...
I love you"
"Good night, it was
Atlanta
See here...
I love you too."
... there were no other words just then...
But let's all get together sometime and tell ghost stories by candlelight using our phony Georgia accents. One of us'll bring the cookies, one the milk, and the other the view. You guys decide which is which.
Rock pape or future that shit.
Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.
No comments:
Post a Comment