Credit: JSquared Photography (photographer), Omari Hardwick (writer)
Into the Wild
| I am 10 years old, But filled with 34 Souls—one for each Year I’ve scrolled, I am the hottest time In your life—now Turned cold. I am Basquiat’s greatest work, Now worn—yet still sold. But I really wish I were Just your favorite word … You know the one you Say over and over cause You like the way it Dances with wolves on Your tongue. I am Hova, Young, Jay-Z at the Least. But old enough to Know if you groove to the Beat—love is beauty. If You dance lazy—love is beast. I am crazy—but my straight Jacket has become a pen and sheet, My food for thought—for the thin to eat. And until the fat ladies sing, I’ll feed them a word or two at least, For … I am 10th year— But the 1st—my uncle deceased. I am a prince tear, Universally burned on a Michael Jackson release. Andre “3000,” Miles Davis Away, Sittin’ on the dock of Otis Bay, Wonderin’ if I got enough telepathy To help raise my niece—back in a Kindergarten classroom somewhere In the outskirts of Georgia, Where she’s puttin’ on my sister’s Shoes and pullin’ out skirts—cause Her favorite game is Grown up play, But how could you blame her, When 18 year old kids be the same way, They try to play dress up for The government— End up just another blown up day. But if I could paint a picture perfect picture— In the city of Wuthering Heights, Where those Wuthering write the 3 words, “Into the Wild,” instead of I love you, On their painting. | I have eaten from the wrong tree— I am fainting—Adam “Supertramp” With Eve crying while I bleed. It’s taken me 10 years to know That women want while men need. To flow is to web Words together with just enough speed, And that I am a superhero talker, A Peter Parker, A.K.A. Mary Jane’s addiction with A little bit of Creed, Throw some Pac, Cobain, and Hathaway In the kitchen and maybe I am just enough heat For all of them to need. Where there’s lost angels— There’s communication shut down. We live in a lost town, Where some had found a way To mail a rose If it came with a Fairfax— It was like finding an underground station, Or at least some railroad tracks to freedom. So I’d sell flows, While others sell trax, Guess to those who’d need ’em, Cause they’d sold their soul Hoping to sell the devil his back, Guess they thought they could somehow cheat ’em. So I’ll become a piece of Harriet’s Tubman Calgoning a piece of women away, And trying to teach their men To not take the pain out on them cause Their fathers were away, And I have learned that I Too was just this young cat, Was just as farther away With a poet costume That made it sound like I knew What to say—and look like I knew how to act— But really—just As Hussein as Saddam— just as Hussein as Barack Just as insane as the palm of A poet who drove His drunken words into some Poor old lady’s back, And I am part of his story, Now buried wherever her body Is at. I am 10th year, Oh—but to have that 1st one back. Into the wild I fled—where my only |
subscribe
fresh ink
digital edition
digital edition
Visit the Inked Art Gallery if you're interested in buying or selling your tattoo art or go to our Tattoo Gallery and upload photos of your tattoos or browse 1000's of other tattoo designs. Check out the Inked Girls to see sexy women with tattoos and beautiful Inked Girls.
Copyright © 2007-2010 Quadra Media L.L.C. All Rights Reserved
