Me and Kilgousa are planning a party for the Crimmuh season. The theme is "Tacky Holiday Sweaters." Errbody has to wear one or dey can't get down. We tronna figguh if we should have it Chapel Hill or in Charlotte. It's gonna go hard.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
PAR-TAY (zonday)
Me and Kilgousa are planning a party for the Crimmuh season. The theme is "Tacky Holiday Sweaters." Errbody has to wear one or dey can't get down. We tronna figguh if we should have it Chapel Hill or in Charlotte. It's gonna go hard.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
And she means it!
man, this lil girl is handlin' her biznasty.
i'm the jam like jelly.
cuz marmalade don't shake like that.
wipe down.
hose me off.
ho's be awf(ul).
it ain't safe no mo'.
i ain't got no chedda.
i ain't no nacho.
i ain't no notch, ho.
i ain't no nuvuh black stat. (c) johnny
i ain't gat no black cuticles.
cut.
Monday, September 24, 2007
i never knew concrete could bend so easily.
this spirit, born of asphalt,
fed off of revolution,
now lingers...
like the smell of forgotten yesterdays.
broken promises.
unfulfilled expectations.
like sometimes you gotta go through hell to feel closer to god.
like sometimes you have to act up to be forgotten.
sometimes i feel like he wears the world on his shoulders
as if regret is en vogue.
like purple hearts are his color.
most days you can find him trying to be lost.
running like the hell he wakes up in.
see, his nightmares still haunt him.
still find a way to maraud themselves between the cracks in his concrete smile.
he knows his angles.
knows which faces go with which hat.
he feels like he's playing understudy
and can't grasp the motivation.
trace his footsteps and see the lives he's lived,
the people he can't seem to be...
and if you listen closely...
you can hear his clock ticking
waiting to be saved.
drowning in a sea of others just like his ass
that don't care to do better.
this is about choices.
like this is not all that he's bent for.
like he gives up too god damn easy.
like his heart has never known affection.
sometimes i feel like he says "i love you's"
just to hear the words.
kicks himself just to know that he is alive,
just to feel something.
all he's got is his poetry.
his name.
he's holding on to the little bit of sanity he has left,
the little bit of foundation that is still there.
he can't seem to hoist himself over his insecurities.
like he floods your memories with tears.
like most great stories go untold.
he's screaming.
silently singing his soliloquy.
dancing on the verge of never.
i feel like he's nineteen, wearing eternity badly.
waiting to feel that real thing.
seismically surrendering to the instability that is him.
realizing that gods and angels have blindspots too.
like sometimes i hate him.
because i see too god damn much of myself in his tears.
like the time we layed in the street making asphalt angels.
like wanting to fix him
like i want to give him some life
but i know he doesn't need it.
i ain't never been a fucking martyr.
never been bigger than myself.
i can't seem to crack my concrete smile,
something he does a hell of a lot better than me.
i just want him to know he's bigger than this.
this spirit, born of asphalt,
fed off of revolution,
now lingers...
like the smell of forgotten yesterdays.
broken promises.
unfulfilled expectations.
like sometimes you gotta go through hell to feel closer to god.
like sometimes you have to act up to be forgotten.
sometimes i feel like he wears the world on his shoulders
as if regret is en vogue.
like purple hearts are his color.
most days you can find him trying to be lost.
running like the hell he wakes up in.
see, his nightmares still haunt him.
still find a way to maraud themselves between the cracks in his concrete smile.
he knows his angles.
knows which faces go with which hat.
he feels like he's playing understudy
and can't grasp the motivation.
trace his footsteps and see the lives he's lived,
the people he can't seem to be...
and if you listen closely...
you can hear his clock ticking
waiting to be saved.
drowning in a sea of others just like his ass
that don't care to do better.
this is about choices.
like this is not all that he's bent for.
like he gives up too god damn easy.
like his heart has never known affection.
sometimes i feel like he says "i love you's"
just to hear the words.
kicks himself just to know that he is alive,
just to feel something.
all he's got is his poetry.
his name.
he's holding on to the little bit of sanity he has left,
the little bit of foundation that is still there.
he can't seem to hoist himself over his insecurities.
like he floods your memories with tears.
like most great stories go untold.
he's screaming.
silently singing his soliloquy.
dancing on the verge of never.
i feel like he's nineteen, wearing eternity badly.
waiting to feel that real thing.
seismically surrendering to the instability that is him.
realizing that gods and angels have blindspots too.
like sometimes i hate him.
because i see too god damn much of myself in his tears.
like the time we layed in the street making asphalt angels.
like wanting to fix him
like i want to give him some life
but i know he doesn't need it.
i ain't never been a fucking martyr.
never been bigger than myself.
i can't seem to crack my concrete smile,
something he does a hell of a lot better than me.
i just want him to know he's bigger than this.
yes. rant.
i hate when people with macs do those dumb mac pictures where they screw up there face and think it's hilarious. it's not.
i hate when people wear abercrombie/hollister/rainbows daily and think they have a "sense of fashion"
i hate when people REALLY try to emphasize how different and unique they are because if you have to tell everyone that you're different, then you probably are just like everyone else trying to be different.
i hate that pharrell is just now becoming popular and all these black kids all of a sudden skateboard and wear skateboard clothes then have the NERVE to get mad when someone else dresses like them ("hey! you biting my style!") No, friend. You are biting pharrell's style.
i hate when people at chapel hill feel the need to prove that they are adequate enough to be at chapel hill so they use big ass words that they generally don't know the meaning of. If they do know the meaning, they usually have one or two in their vocabulary that they pull out to feel better about being dumb.
i hate when people wear rainbows/shorts/short sleeves when it's cold outside, then talk about how it's just b/c they don't get cold. bullshit. if it's 40 degrees and raining, you're gonna be cold... even in you're from new england. don't try to make up excuses for why you look ridiculous.
i hate when guys with small wangs try to compensate by buying abercrombie shirts with hideous statements on them like, "Oh, sorry. what's your name again?" and "Your mom likes me." etc. No one likes you... or your tiny penis. grow the fuck up.
i hate when people make statements in general with their tshirts. no one cares that you're grumpy in the morning or that you break for trolls. no one cares that you love beer. really. no one does. you just look dumb.
i hate that i hate so many things.
i hate when people only listen to one type of music. if i hear one more small town white girl call hip hop "trash" idk what i'm gonna do. *no racist*
i hate when "forward thinkers" feel the need to let you know that they are forward thinkers.
i hate that drink all the time.
i love college.
i hate when people wear abercrombie/hollister/rainbows daily and think they have a "sense of fashion"
i hate when people REALLY try to emphasize how different and unique they are because if you have to tell everyone that you're different, then you probably are just like everyone else trying to be different.
i hate that pharrell is just now becoming popular and all these black kids all of a sudden skateboard and wear skateboard clothes then have the NERVE to get mad when someone else dresses like them ("hey! you biting my style!") No, friend. You are biting pharrell's style.
i hate when people at chapel hill feel the need to prove that they are adequate enough to be at chapel hill so they use big ass words that they generally don't know the meaning of. If they do know the meaning, they usually have one or two in their vocabulary that they pull out to feel better about being dumb.
i hate when people wear rainbows/shorts/short sleeves when it's cold outside, then talk about how it's just b/c they don't get cold. bullshit. if it's 40 degrees and raining, you're gonna be cold... even in you're from new england. don't try to make up excuses for why you look ridiculous.
i hate when guys with small wangs try to compensate by buying abercrombie shirts with hideous statements on them like, "Oh, sorry. what's your name again?" and "Your mom likes me." etc. No one likes you... or your tiny penis. grow the fuck up.
i hate when people make statements in general with their tshirts. no one cares that you're grumpy in the morning or that you break for trolls. no one cares that you love beer. really. no one does. you just look dumb.
i hate that i hate so many things.
i hate when people only listen to one type of music. if i hear one more small town white girl call hip hop "trash" idk what i'm gonna do. *no racist*
i hate when "forward thinkers" feel the need to let you know that they are forward thinkers.
i hate that drink all the time.
i love college.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
i don't usually do this, but...
i partied my ass off tonight.
it was pretty much the jam.
i'm tired.
i smell like vodka and cigarettes and sweet and booty.
college is beautiful.
it was pretty much the jam.
i'm tired.
i smell like vodka and cigarettes and sweet and booty.
college is beautiful.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
imagining realizations.
as if revolution just meant that everyone took their turn.
as if you had to pay to make change.
as if huey newton were a cookie.
somebody tell me what's wrong with my realizations.
as if kids only hear what you tell them
and AIDS is what we got back from our taxes.
as if wealth lived in the heart and mind
and oil was an afterthought of food.
as if hungary were only a nation
and mothers could simmer aspirations.
tell me.
as if mtv played music.
as if bet entertained blacks
and soft shoes were just what we wore around the house.
can't stomach the truth but the food stamps are free.
somebody tell me what's wrong.
as if che started a t shirt company
and the panthers were just a football team.
as if katrina were a pool party.
heritage can be packed away.
as if water could remove all stains.
as if shrubs could run countries.
cabinets just watch over dishes
and you get the house wholesale.
as if oceans and icebergs played freeze tag when no one is around
and gang violence endangers species.
as if gay marriage killed the dinosaurs.
barney was too secure in his own masculinity.
as if racist were a political party.
we're all invited.
as if i watched the news for spearsmiths.
as if sheep don't flock because it's not natural.
as if young girls like to carve hieroglyphics on the backs of their throats.
and this
may just be a metaphorical musing through my realities
but i feel like something bigger is happening here.
teenage mothers can't rebirth their childhoods.
we blow balloons for kids but tell them to skip the condom.
w.a.r.s.t.o.r.i.e.s. are praised but gangsters are misguided.
somebody tell me whats wrong.
as if the scars of diamonds weren't forever
and rappers could get refunds.
as if we still rode chariots across rainbows
and vogue published a hot button issue.
as if only dj's spun our speech.
as if we supported our homeless.
as if we supported our troops.
as if venn diagrams only mattered in the grey area.
tell me whats wrong.
as if we still read on rainbows.
as if the pursuit of happiness were only a movie.
as if we could get behind the wheel of liberty.
as if freedom were free.
somebody
tell me whats wrong with my realizations.
as if you had to pay to make change.
as if huey newton were a cookie.
somebody tell me what's wrong with my realizations.
as if kids only hear what you tell them
and AIDS is what we got back from our taxes.
as if wealth lived in the heart and mind
and oil was an afterthought of food.
as if hungary were only a nation
and mothers could simmer aspirations.
tell me.
as if mtv played music.
as if bet entertained blacks
and soft shoes were just what we wore around the house.
can't stomach the truth but the food stamps are free.
somebody tell me what's wrong.
as if che started a t shirt company
and the panthers were just a football team.
as if katrina were a pool party.
heritage can be packed away.
as if water could remove all stains.
as if shrubs could run countries.
cabinets just watch over dishes
and you get the house wholesale.
as if oceans and icebergs played freeze tag when no one is around
and gang violence endangers species.
as if gay marriage killed the dinosaurs.
barney was too secure in his own masculinity.
as if racist were a political party.
we're all invited.
as if i watched the news for spearsmiths.
as if sheep don't flock because it's not natural.
as if young girls like to carve hieroglyphics on the backs of their throats.
and this
may just be a metaphorical musing through my realities
but i feel like something bigger is happening here.
teenage mothers can't rebirth their childhoods.
we blow balloons for kids but tell them to skip the condom.
w.a.r.s.t.o.r.i.e.s. are praised but gangsters are misguided.
somebody tell me whats wrong.
as if the scars of diamonds weren't forever
and rappers could get refunds.
as if we still rode chariots across rainbows
and vogue published a hot button issue.
as if only dj's spun our speech.
as if we supported our homeless.
as if we supported our troops.
as if venn diagrams only mattered in the grey area.
tell me whats wrong.
as if we still read on rainbows.
as if the pursuit of happiness were only a movie.
as if we could get behind the wheel of liberty.
as if freedom were free.
somebody
tell me whats wrong with my realizations.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
underage thinking.
i'm still learning how to breathe.
learning to sleepwalk through nightmares that haunt my sunshine.
this is my reality.
they are still learning how to breathe.
learning to sleepwalk through nightmares that haunt their sunshine.
these are six young men standing for revolution.
cut down like the trees from which their ancestors swung.
this is for jena.
this is for wounds that don't heal.
feel your way through blinding dustbowl rural backlots.
education don't come free out there.
it's called experience.
living.
dying.
this is for cotton fields and watermelon patches.
no truth to spit out.
only fabrications.
no linen can soften these bars love doesn't conquer hate yall.
i'm talking about battle scars.
tribal dances.
trying to move along like right on still fits [(c) toya]
like bravery is inborn.
it's a harsh reality.
like realizing that bigotry is not a birth right.
it is learned.
like life lessons.
like growing up in a place that is still waiting for something.
for someone to stand the fuck up and fix it.
like waiting to be saved.
like realizing that gods and angels have blind spot.
.
.
.
and thats as far as i got.
learning to sleepwalk through nightmares that haunt my sunshine.
this is my reality.
they are still learning how to breathe.
learning to sleepwalk through nightmares that haunt their sunshine.
these are six young men standing for revolution.
cut down like the trees from which their ancestors swung.
this is for jena.
this is for wounds that don't heal.
feel your way through blinding dustbowl rural backlots.
education don't come free out there.
it's called experience.
living.
dying.
this is for cotton fields and watermelon patches.
no truth to spit out.
only fabrications.
no linen can soften these bars love doesn't conquer hate yall.
i'm talking about battle scars.
tribal dances.
trying to move along like right on still fits [(c) toya]
like bravery is inborn.
it's a harsh reality.
like realizing that bigotry is not a birth right.
it is learned.
like life lessons.
like growing up in a place that is still waiting for something.
for someone to stand the fuck up and fix it.
like waiting to be saved.
like realizing that gods and angels have blind spot.
.
.
.
and thats as far as i got.
Monday, September 10, 2007
jogging
i see a lot of this.
what the hell are we all running from?
insecurities probably.
we're all too scared to die.
too scared to be human.
too scared to be perfect.
but it sure does a body good.
what the hell are we all running from?
insecurities probably.
we're all too scared to die.
too scared to be human.
too scared to be perfect.
but it sure does a body good.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
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