Telling her stories as is she'd really hear me.
She knows so much history, she's been written and read clearly.
Am i breaking her heart, these words of illusion.
Through metaphoric phrases, her eyes lost in deep confusion.
Am i using her, abusing her...trust and affection.
My words tattooed on her skin, ink manifested into roman text...
Font 12, printed in black and white.
She is shot like erupted veins...defusing narcotic eyes.
I tell her that i love her, and most of all i trust her,
and though i know that she cannot hold water,
she has given birth to my daughter...Hip-hop.
Through rhythm and sound is the new generation of our blood line found.
But originally we were born through words and speech.
Though My nature is stained with sin...
her nature is born through pencils and pens...
As though this vinyl text book is her body... and
her emotion is narrated by the blue lines ... and
her mind established by the aluminum spiral spine.
Does she have feelings?
Is poetry a her, or him...
all this time i have taken upon myself to think that she was a lady...
that she was my baby...though she given birth to my baby...
how she had relieve me daily..by written words lately.
Does she have feelings?
Father time rings his chimes, bells, and whistles.
Fathers hands looses cartilage, and his fingers become thistles.
I married poetry, and fathered hip-hop.
Yet, my lineage holds a prodigal child.
Those who strangle newborn verses, and lie them in small hearses.
Those who call it rap, and spit out crap about straps, and lap..
dances.
My wife grows weak...with every song played in the name of hip-hop.
With every child whose ears fall deaf on lyrics , my wife bleeds...
From the womb of where hip-hop was born, she bleeds ink that was pure.
Ink made to transform in to lyrical masterpieces...her heart grows weak.
Yes Poetry does have feelings.
Stop killing her, and let her live.
