Credit: JSquared Photography (photographer), Omari Hardwick (writer)
|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
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
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—
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
I am 10th year,
Oh—but to have that 1st one back.
Into the wild I fled—where my only