clap back

The only thing different from a hope and a dream/Is the time you take to take it from what it is to what it means/And what it means is something that’s cracked through the seams/And you’re back in your bed again, stuck on your dreams/My dreams I try to live ‘em, dive and sort ‘em out/Half right half the time other half I’m straight out/ Of luck luckless fucked up fuckless no/Change in my state but the dollar makes a buck/ This is not reality just a blow of a frozen life/Stuck in a pattern of existence defined by what I like/Or what I know, cause I do know that I know so little/The conductor of my dreams is tricking me with these riddles/And everybody else has the keys to all these questions/And I can’t figure it out through books or freestyle sessions/Or regression into my idea of what it means to alive/So I’m stuck in my dream world, reality steps outside.

Re: Lost

Indeed we are a lost generation. A youth of speculators searching for wealth after the goldrush. Our generation is lost because in the swirling dustbowl we are strangers in a kingdom of dirt castles. Antiquated architecture to ominus to face- our knowledge that they have always been there plays into our ignorance of why, or who put them there. Despite our arsenal and its ability to bring these castles down we just talk about its weaknesses, never acting. Our pugnacity is undoubtable, but paralysis grips us all.

Our youth and education must not be in vain. Though these are weapons for progress they are for naught if not put into action. As another school year dawns, we must swear to get up, get out, and get some- on any level, so as to say thank you to the cosmos for giving us these privleges.

Lost

And with tears in my eyes... optimism as my greatest strength and weakness I begin to realize just how evil we are. My sleep has been troubled with the screams of those born into a reality that I cannot fathom and convincing myself that someway somehow I can change it, that I was meant to help fix it but why me and why not them? We can go to space but genocide in 2007. Millions killed for no good reason. We bawl at what Hitler did swearing never again... yet here it is again our answer... show me some profit and then we'll help them! The chocolate children are still ignored no different than in Alabama in 64. If it was in our backyard what would we think. The lives we've let drift away, lost ideas, lost beauties because our humanity is only as good as the petroleum in the ground or terrorist whereabouts that for all i know we probably invented. I've truly started to care less about some Rockefeller legacy... My god how will history judge us... we are capable of so much and it seems history has mastered repetition.
Are we the lost generation? What do we stand for? Our ideals contradicted daily. Equality for all... unalienable rights... responsibility towards the greater good. Raised to believe we're the good guys, we're always right and we know whats best. Our lack of involvement in mother Africa puts it all to the test. In search of my calling, something more... so when I stand before God I wasn't just another money whore. Meaning is Everything.

has it ever crossed your mind?

it's all in your mind if you haven't seen it yet. a couple of stories from the ones that would spread rumors - "i cant head back solo". i'd put my faith on the line that you could, but the more i do that the more skeptical i get. some have gotten mugged, but they were asking for it; asking for a place that wasn't like the rest. and they got mugged by some people that were asking for a place that wasn't like the rest. and then they did, they both did, they crossed the equillibrium of supply and demand. one demanded what the other supplied, the other supplied what the other demanded. but neither were economists; both were only thinking about what they knew. they weren't happy with the answer so they tried to figure out what they could know.

A Penny and the Empire State Building

Maybe I just use repitition because it sounds fly
Maybe you're fuckin with the wrong guy
Or maybe I should just calm down, right?
Maybe I just started a blog to show off
Or maybe I write on it so I don't get wrote off

I hope they see I'm tryin to get away from maybe's
But quite honestly they have the allure of a lady
So I gotta try to seduce them and slay she
Get her on my good side by date three
You see I got to flip this
Because when the maybes start comin up positive its
Leading to me being more optimistic
Then after I rock and pivot
I can take over with a mic like Scottie Pippen
I'm tryin to gain some traction so there's not a lot of slippin
Watch me move forward steadily even though all the drops are different

John's talkin about my iPod in my pocket
Puttin beats in my ears, so whether I hear cheers or jeers
Then I have to rock it, turn the music up
There's hip-hop in my heart and I can't refuse it love
Walk with a swagger where I used to strut
And that's the one thing I'm not worried about losin', but -

Maybe I won't make it in the new city
Maybe all my good moves are a little too risky
There'll be a lot of dudes with me but are a few shifty?
Maybe my grades will be later in the alphabet
I gotta wait a few months for my pals to get -
back, Until then I gotta nail the set
Or maybe wait for the scales to tip
Fuck Maybe, I'm definitely not ready for failure yet


The Alchemist Turns Basic Elements to Gold

you're blinded from the start

starfish and sea snails on the beach - an ambiguous feature of wherever you are, right next to the chain of pizza restaurants and european surf shops imported from iceland? but the constant reminder of the pier, not any pier but this pier, with the dozens of folks reppin melanin and fishing poles catching galjoen and other species remote to the sandy beaches of Durban, probably to sell in shwarmee and samosas for a few cents in the market (after they've sat warm for a few hours) to unsuspecting tourists from johannesburg and gaborone. and as much as they try to remain inconspicuous in their unimposing role, their existence is my vitality. my reminder that thousands of miles away from home im not in the same evironment; the streets do hold their own mystique, money doesn't sit in every pocket, the hand still goes straight to mouth (after the shop is closed and the street is swept with the branch of the palm tree) not after the ipod is in the pocket and italian leather wallet is in the vest.

but then walk up three blocks, and you rationalize the other way. yea there's 18 sweaty people in a van - but they're not walking 5 miles barefoot everyday. they have to have steel bars over the smallest of windows - but they're still making a living. its a table on the side of the road with sweets sprawled across its top - but the cost of living is so low that just a few sold will buy a chicken curry pie, the streets are filthy but the water is clean, most of the shantytowns at least have electricity, the white kids are racist but they must be at least aware of whose labor they're living off of, the escort services are more than escort services - but there are 'safe abortion' advertisements on every street pole ((WTF?!) the baby won't get aids but the women still will), im a foreigner but at least im not trying to exploit, i cant recycle a can but the world cup's coming - and with it international standards, she cries for a couple of rand for her child - but their are poor mothers in NY too, im guilty of privelege - but i have been for the last 19 years...

it's unnatural. you can't cope. you can observe, and analyze, and read books about what can be done, and talk to the authors that are writing them, and you can walk the streets of the neighborhood and eat your meal on the side of the road or from the fast food restaurant and you're a nuisance just the same. but as soon as you are reminded of that fact, and it doesn't leave you after a night of booze and sleep, then you are destined to have your legacy already defined...so you find a way to cope, to vent on a blog, or to think of inspirational quotes that help you to keep typing, and trying, and wondering, and hoping, and believing more and more until the future is once again yet to be defined and reality is malleable, and hope is constant. and hope is constant.

jaws is still alive

i saw him today, on the bus, out my window, in the mirror. they say he's drawn to blood. NO, not me, not I! really? Not in shower, only in the laundry, where my dirty work lays. On the plane over here where my guilt still lays. But on the roof built by - oh wait. in the pub with the music by who?

i CAN look up though, haven't done enough damage yet - strike that, the landfill with my cartons of milk from 3rd grade are orbiting. what's a mind to do? i want to bridge the gap between the where i am, what i had to be, and where i long to be.

salt water heals wounds, but not scars. this nonsense built me, not the stars.

645

up up up past the right of human history, same questions.
you told a story to me but i laughed to hard to remember it. there's a star out there, bottom of it all, i can't think straight. i am not that gullible, but you are fooling me. it's the same thing everytime, step into a room, hands to pockets, swing side to side. "hello". a step back, farther farther up up. on the roof, we talked about something vital, she studies philosophy so she's got to be thinking, spit on two three turns away from an answer that means something. it's quite cyclic, but our conversation has a beautiful essence that is young and living. my web of knowledge is limited and shaped by everything that has ever been around me, i listen to music everyday that dresses me up. swirling, she slid into my memory. DONE