Note: Now keep in mind that I’m an artist, and I’m sensitve about my…-Erykah Badu
Seriously, it’s been a while since I’ve shared a poem, or any writing, for that matter, for thoughts/critiques/insights. This is one of my babies, so hold it gently. Also, this is meant to be read aloud, in the style of spoken word, so say it aloud if you can to get a good feel of it. This poem is slighly angry forceful, and more than a little aggressive confident. There are two less than savory word choices, but you have to go with what feels authentic and say what you mean, right? They won’t all be so confrontational condemning plaintive; but I figured why not start with a big departure and bring you back to what you know of me? *Deep breath* Here goes nothing…
Untitled (this Poem’s About You)*
Would rather not be tolerated or settled for,
Would like to think I deserve to be treated like more
Than the whore on the floor, making it
Not your average run of the mill
Must be her body tip drill, nor intelligent and
Highly skilled but her body’s no thrill.
I realize most guys don’t think my eyes are my best feature,
And want a lady that will freak, preach and teach, or
At least she seems all three on the surface.
Wonder if it’s really worth it,
When all I was taught was important seems completely worthless
Like subway tokens in Pontiac, and as a matter of fact
I birthed a curse that only gets worse
Living a hook with no verse and nothing
In my purse but book, chapter & verse.
And it hurts to be so close to romantic perfection
A close intimate connection, yet not be able to
Taste that confection
Because Mr. Right has flaws and claws.
What’s the point of being right in a world gone wrong?
All alone when the sweat soaked throng
Getting low, showing their thong
Poppin’ hard to the song
Get all the play like Marvin Gaye in his hay.
Even though you say give me a church girl any day.
Before the lie trips from your lips you’re mad cause my
Hips don’t lie,
No woman, no cry.
I can’t deny I don’t drink, don’t get high.
Would rather be pushed aside than
Told to wait then be forgotten, til love gone rotten
Begins to smell, and you can’t tell
Why the hell I’m so angry.
Then blame me for not being the life of the party;
Go on, tell ’em Carly.
Even though it’s not hardly, it’s softly true
That you’re so vain and oblivious to
My pain, you don’t even know
This poem’s about you;
*Don’t you just hate it when someone tells you something is Untitled but then it has a subtitle? What is the point of that?Even though I just did it, I don’t really know; it just felt right.
Leave your two cent’s worth after the beep…