Tag: poetry of ig

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A Beastie Boys Sonnet

Doing the least but I go on stage LAST

No sleep ‘til Brooklyn I’m on my way NOW

Can’t pay a ticket but I still roll FAST

They read the car’s plates NOW, but don’t slow DOWN!

Intergalactic on repeat FLYIN’

To another PLACE deep in outer SPACE

Pass the Brass Monkey cuz I’m just TRYIN’

I said I felt ill my homeboys said GREAT

HATERS stay tryna sabotage my LIFE

Fighting for my right to party mad LATE

I can’t keep it down dude I’m filled with STRIFE

All of my neighbors are in bed by EIGHT

Posse in effect but we have bad KNEES

Maybe just sit around and smoke some WEED!

– RSM

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Bad Bitch Part 3

Miss Independent, that’s what they call her

Heads turn wherever she goes, but none of them stall her

Whether she’s walking , running, driving away

She got time for no MAN at the end of the day

Marathon Bae out here lookin’ FIERCE

Out of your league, boo, you ain’t getting near

The Baddest Bitch alive just doin’ her thang

Got these fellas’ heads spinning like a boomerang

Timeless, ageless, this Queen can’t be stopped

So keep on killing it just like you thought! – RSM

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Arm Rest Ash Trays

As a young child (as one does) I imagined quite a lot and explored with my mind and hands;


So oddly enough I became randomly enamored with empty ash trays in the arms of the backseats of old cars –


It was like discovering a little hidden pool or crawlspace in an otherwise bland landscape.


Beneath the fake wood as my mom drove us around in my grandfather’s 1970s landboat

I found a world of wonder in these mini metal trap doors originally meant for other people’s cigarettes.

They were clean and unused, though still a bad look for kids to play in –

They were (in my mind) little hot tubs, bunkers, a random place to put my fingers,
somewhere where I could put my toys as they came along for the ride.

I became fascinated by hidden ash trays, almost like an art form it felt like finding the smallest of elegant little spaces

that harked back to a time and space when the adults in the room were not only the only voices, but tobacco filled, gritty sounding voices that carried like the feeling of rubbing your palms against loose gravel.


While I learned the lyrics to ‘It Takes Two’ by Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock and my light up sneakers flickered brilliantly, I still yearned to know more about yesteryear,


and like a tiny early 90s archaeologist I always searched for the hidden compartments until I found them – the ever classy built-in ash tray; an unlikely calling card to my childhood.


They’re all but gone now, surviving only in especially well-preserved chariots of the mid to late 1900s, but for a time they were an iconic part of my world – a call to love the world for what it was; a place to explore. – RSM

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Victory

How does one claim it?

Is it only as temporary as your next bout?

Or does at least one moment of joy suffice, potentially through one’s last days?

A better word is ‘happiness,’ I think, because it can also be achieved without competition

nor any witnesses, it can be just you, having a feeling deep within –

an excitable peace, a love for existence,

or like a hummingbird’s wings it could be constant, consistent,

a warm, lovely feeling that doesn’t go away,

it comes and goes with sports, and so it does with everything else;

and when it’s yours, in your heart, mind, soul, whatever you believe your ‘self’ to be –

then it’s yours.

Enjoy it. Love it. Don’t go around it or be above it.

Take a step back and feel yourself soar. – RSM

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The Great Nothing

A violent storm brews on a sunny day, internally,

a disconnect between the thoughts I think and the world I see,

the great nothing attacks with calculated poignancy

and a million little no ones have their fingers pointed back towards me.

 

A lot of names it goes by, the DSM gives it definitions galore,

an idle mind be wildin’ out, creating fake,

demonic children running around my inner self’s candy store –

breaking down all the shelves, they’re giving the clerk hell,

until I restart my mind it all subsides, this grand swell

of my mind’s river finally dies down. Sometimes it takes a nanosecond,

other times the inner storm rages all day, and I just gotta lie down.

 

Nothing motivational here, just an expression of

my thoughts, breakdancing sideways, inside of a closed confessional,

chaotic combinations coming to crux with the pressure from

not the atmosphere, but reality/society/these phantom obsessions, bro. – RSM

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Periwinkle Skies; A Sign

A light purple, if you will,

So trill, the hue of royalty hangs itself above the ever-moving metropolis,

it’s a shade that flirts with blue, purple, and grey – every so often, this, horizon

glows above us, quietly, yet proudly.

Not unlike the dusk that follows, it wanes into darker times, yet reminding us to be not afraid of the night. – RSM

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Backpacks Dropping

Carrying one has given me perspective.

Kinda like when Goku and Krillin took their turtle shells in Dragonball,

you’re taking on a debt of labor to bring what you need along with you

and far and wide, near and close that weight is literally on your shoulders.

The parable of fool’s gold regulates the way we lug along those things we need for wherever we are going;

and booooyyy let me tell you when that weight is released –

whether it was books for class, I had just got home, touched down across the world, or just got to the car – I feel the difference. 

I feel free. – RSM

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And I Ran . . .

What a relief as I take off into the cool breeze,

I’m feeling the air, hearing my footsteps as I sweat it out,

I zoom into the void of my path ahead.

My mind drops into silence from its usual chatter, ever-loud;

distractions disappear like a leftover fog from a cloudy day.

Peace sits between my ears as a flock of seagulls sets a course ahead to explore. – RSM

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Visions, Vol. 3: My’nd’imensional Jumps

All the time, so it goes,

a quick shift lifts my consciousness out the nearest window,

a random round-robin of rare realities rage,

ranging from what’s reasonable to the completely unfeasible,

my mind is a flip phone with T9, sometime in 2002, after 9 –

unlimited. It talks all it wants.

A gust of wind blows me back in,

a nano-second long journey takes me across the universe and snaps me back to my reality.

Then,

through the entropy of imagination, the cosmic jungle of all possibilities seen through my own unique lens,

I’m. Once. Again. pinballing through existence, leaning into this mysterious experience, with no resistance –

And here I am, back in an instant – sliding right into my third eye’s home plate, where it always begins, this,

Infinite, unpredictable winding pathway of pathways, it sounds overh’whelming in writing, but I find it lovely,

My thoughts are on shuffle, my mind jumps into the Google text box, but never hits ‘Search’ cuz I’m always ‘Feeling Lucky,’

My ego’s like Jasmine on the balcony: playing hard to get.

But just like Aladdin my imagination is stationed on his magic carpet,

hand outstretched with a smile, asking her, “Do you trust me?” – RSM

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Blank

I’m on a journey where things just tend to get stranger,

I have a stoic face on, from a chemical brain changer.

my emotional range has been strictly maintained

so I stare down bliss the same way I look at danger.

I’m a feather, slowly floating along through sweater weather,

whether the winds are weak or strong, I’m just gone

and the song in my mind is on a short loop, perpetual,

It’s the same time of the day, no matter when I look at the schedu-al,

Third eye’s view is laser precise, cuz all the colors of emotions are void,

I can only see in a sharp black and white, I can hear a loud silence, I can feel the noise;

each moment is vivid, from the inside out

But I’m on Saitama’s vibes all day, without a doubt. – RSM