Fearless

Dedicated to the people I admire the most.

Look to side, person, and I am already gone.
For I am fearless, and have already taken a step ahead.
If you fall, I will reside behind you to hold you.
Don't fear, do not heed the crass that is stroven upon you.

Rest and fight in peace.

Beatbox Bugger

Beatbox bugger,
come snugga-wugga-schremabi-lugga,
pause, for musicians must.

Followtherhythmthatbemissinaroundyou,
addthebarthatbemissingaround you,
speak freely, deal out them vicious beats,
they're your right to spit and speak.

Beatbox bugger.
Followed by notes that can't be written down.

Beatbox bugger.

The Real Midas

He is the real Mr. Midas,
and as he rubs his hands in preparation,
gold dust falls, and golden notes echo throughout existence.

He is one who doesn't question value, doesn't measure faith,
just knows what it is and feels like.

His aural glow spreads, soft yet pronounced,
and all he needs to do to succeed, is to touch it.

Greed is not a creed you should judge me by, he says,
and I genuinely want your well being, friend,
but because you are my friend, I want it.

Step ciphers, deaf tones, sparkling hats, and torrid bones,
things don't make sense until you see yourself in them.

He is Midas, and whatever he touches, turns to gold.

First Impressions

First Impressions.

Hello.
My new friend, are you sad? Eager? Happy? Curt? Tentative?

Exchange Names. Listen to how they pronounce it.
Do they view themselves like that? Did they change their name to suit you? Does Facebook have to save us here?

Shake Hands.
Clammy? Firm? Smooth? Confident? Unmoving? Lifeless? Want a hug instead?

Eye Contact.
Do I have to force you to look into mine? Do sparks fly as our sights meet? Am I but one in a long queue?

Smile.
Make me happy, person, and do it.

Converse.
Can we avoid the weather? No friend, not the cloudiness, but the actual topic of weather?
How long we linger here is solely upto you and me. So be responsible, and responsive.
If I remember you for what you said and did, you will make me remember your name and want more. Or maybe I just vaguely remember us meeting somewhere and the way you stared past my shoulder.

Give.
Do you give me something that I wish to have?

Take.
Do you know to take something that I wish to give?

Aesthete.
Can you satisfy a vision that was but meant to be?

Let us fly away then, I have an impression painted by you in my head.

Do remember to leave a signature.

Their Gazes Met Across the Sea

On the edge of a ravaged battle cliff,
the solitary warrior stepped across,
bodies and bloody pools,
and gazed across the sea.

On the other shore,
stood his wife, mother and aging father,
tear stains on their cheeks.

Across the water,
flew a white dove, bearing news to be read -
they hoped - by the father -
of his first child now cradled in its mother's arms.

Somehow, the dove was just a showing of faith and hope,
for their gazes met across the sea.

My Fool's Gold, My Gold.

So I get onto this bus, University headed.
Working over summer, campus job.

Break Dance image in my head, light purple lights on a red stage, hat bowed down

The lady I was aware of met my eye and I sat down right opposite her.

"Boy, I can see it, can I see your palm?"

So now I'm randomly excited, I'm gonna find out stuff about myself seen by another on my palm. Cool.

"My name is Mamma Love. My name, on paper, is Angela Seventhunders. From New Orleans."

Cool, Mama Love.

"Boy, if you could see what I could, whooo!, You have been gifted!"

Whooo... Me on track, headphones blaring, 8 Mile, Mozart, Satch, Me, Sharp Note on Impeccable Beat... "Whoo!"?

Me and my gold, my everlast.
A felt tipped velvet word mile,
Me and my gold, my ever past,
Tinkles in my ears as I smile.

Boom, boom, it sounds as I laugh with all the gifts I can lay my hands on.

"Boy, you also think too much, both of yourself and not, and my name is Mama Love."

The sparkle didn't really fade, as my guitar strung out in tone, but pointed my eyes forward.
And but I do realize that my foolery is such a bliss,
and for that I don't atone.

I'm having this semi epiphany, I can be a fool for life,
for that just makes me deaf to a no,
and I got Mamma Love telling me so -

"Boy, I see you doing good".
Street grease, Deaf tones, iPhones, Reality and Music. Sure, yay!

She said it off a palm...

So I am on this bus, right? University headed. Summertime. Campus Job.

... read it off your own damn palm, then...

And for the overt foolery that just don't cut it -

"Boy, sometimes, you just have to cut out the bull... And my name is Mamma Love, spread the 'word', spread the 'love'".

Things align, I feel it, you feel it, you do - you know you do -
and if there's one more thing I have to say to you -

We're happy if we can be fools when we like, not fools when we like to be happy.

- know that if you need to.

A Drop of Silence and a Cup of Love

They sat down on their hearthen rug,
next to the fire, with an earthen mug,
each in their hands.

The day had passed, at long at last,
out with their sweat, shouts and hass-
le in their course.

The one deep breath that they,
took together, took away,
the edge from their their tone.

The one, matched stare,
kissed despair,
out into the cold.

The one warm drink, together made,
on their one tiny stove,

said that they needed,

their bonded drop of silence,
and a cup brimming, full of love.

On Pike's

Salty air, salty breeze,
musician come, sway me please,
flying birds, flying fish,
watering mouth, exotic dish.

Farmer's fruit, freshly wet,
charming faces, happily met,
artiste's child, to parent's help,
lost in colors, is myself.

Obscure wares, colorful all,
changing though, as the fall -
musicians mind, travelers heart,
of a kaleidoscope, is a part.

Complacency and Complexity. ^_-.

A mighty roar out of the ferocious lion's den,
Bound Ulysses' scream of pain layered Siren voice,
mighty sonorous gong of Commandments ten,
and back to poor Ulysses against his choice.

Man, to be back to writing on paper again,
so much heavy stuff I seem to spew,
emotion this, balance that,
'mportant 'tis - but lets start anew.

I talk now about a simple man.
With a simple smile and a simple plan,
who went to work, lunch in tow,
with a hum dada dum did this man go.

He worked all day,
and felt his veins shudder at the unstable challenges that plagued him,
and fought to his muscles breaking beat against the world's din,
and on and on and blahdidramatiyatipoo...

No, no... Keep it simple...

He went to work with a simple smile,
and his simple plan took him 3 miles,
after work to the grocery shop,
for his wife's shopping list and a soda pop.

Phew.

The Iceman

Iceman

He stood, sinewed in silver,
not a speck of color in his world.
Not a love, not a hate, just a view,
crystal clear, nothing near, nothing far.

He stretched out his hand,
and one might think that the air grew cold,
but it changed naught, for the same was he,
unchanged throughout, he was but taking a step.

Then a rose blocked his path,
and he grabbed it, and gasped.
He could not let go, for two milky palms pressed his close.
Roses have thorns you know, red streams from iced veins arose.

And as the color speckled into his eyes,
the Iceman had his demise.

This Sunlit Haze

For them happy-go-lucky buggers.

Oxygen deprivation? Nah.

This is true fun.
My eyes tire to open, screaming out tears on the road.
But they do open, and smile at the world.
My wet lashes cover my sight, partially though.
Its like seeing the sights through a diffracting prison cell,
colors so real that all must be well.

My step's light, and I did have a headaches five minutes ago,
but its going now. Gone with the smile thats stretching out on my face.
So what if its going to snow tomorrow, the sun is out now.

I see the crosser sign turn to the white walking sign.
Each figure in front of me seems a story as it crosses the road,
linked to another, so much motion in my sight.

I don't seem to walk in distance, but in time, or so Einstein said.

My head does clear once I cross the road,
and I risk another glance at the setting sun.
Its there, poignant as ever,
leaving me to see,
where my new mini era has begun.

The Joker

Chaos is true. Pure chance as well. And I'm gonna prove it.

I live in intensity. A kind which you can't dream of. Yet to you I seem so distant and grounded.
At my weakest I may acknowledge a rival, but then thats my secret.

Escalation is me, in pain of a kind that hurts to feel.
With recursed memories leading into one another, I live in my present, which spans your lives' extent.
I can see your core, only because I've lost mine,
and take and break your quest to find yours.

And in the midst of this all, the one human part of me is what you would call cruel,
for it amuses me, and pushes me to cure that I see you as: my boredom.

How I sit on air, strolling through your worlds, in an attempt to amuse myself,
searching for that rock that resists me, a face that I wouldn't mind seeing in my mirror; and hence break it.

I wasn't always like this, I like to recall, but that is non existent now.

So smile with me, for I do exist. Either in your wildest fantasies or darkest dreams, hoping for my answer who actually makes me work.

Escalation is me, in chaos of a kind that builds and builds again.
How I test, without rest, spread out in this ordered mess, the unstoppable that is me.

This show is such a parody. I'm just different, thats all.

Prophet's

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.

The world revolves, and us with it,
the betters, with a compass tugging at their hearts,
they flow through their dreams, their wants and aims,
not waiting for their world to start.

Some stare, lost, into the skies,
the stars' existence from up above,
beamed into their starry eyes,
holding their dreams, their wants and aims.

Some are sharp as the edge of knives,
cutting through what they despise,
silver hazes in others' eyes,
cutting away their nightmares and hates.

Such a pulse it is, living on,
such drives there are, burning on,
makes me feel so wonderfully incomplete,
with my changing aims that I will never meet.

I see the symmetry of twos all about.
And I celebrate this tug of mighty souls as they clash about.

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.

The Untitled Song

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.

The world revolves, and us with it,
the betters, with a compass tugging at their hearts,
they flow through their dreams, their wants and aims,
not waiting for their world to start.

Some stare, lost, into the skies,
the stars' existence from up above,
beamed into their starry eyes,
holding their dreams, their wants and aims.

Some are sharp as the edge of knives,
cutting through what they despise,
silver hazes in others' eyes,
cutting away their nightmares and hates.

Such a pulse it is, living on,
such drives there are, burning on,
makes me feel so wonderfully incomplete,
with my changing aims that I will never meet.

I see the symmetry of twos all about.
And I celebrate this tug of mighty souls as they clash about.

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.