I want to be beautiful.
I want to be true to you.
I want to write these rhymes
That are like glue to you
That whatever I say to you
Sticks to you
I will be beautiful,
Every word is a reminder
That this may be new to you
But I have been doing this since high school
And in fifth grade, when the teacher
Remarked that I would be a writer some day
I listened to her, If you are out there Mrs. Todd
Thank You, You are beautiful.
Yeah sometimes its hard out here,
Cause no one really knows you,
Or pretends to.
But you can’t lose yourself,
Just keep it old school, true to you
I write rhymes, because to me its therapy
My ego never got in the way of producing
No I am not that dude.
I do this for me, its always been for me,
But if it helps you too, cool.
I have a lot of love in my heart.
I want to give it to you.
I know words can create a spark.
So I try to motivate, with each word
Premeditated, like murderers do.
But me I don’t murder rhymes,
I give them life.
Like a murderer gets,
But I got off topic, so let me cool my jets
And let me get some shoes, and chains,
You know new school.
Or old school. I am going back to the days,
When I sang in harmony in chorus
Where though my parents weren’t there
I found the fortress, in the forest
Keeping it 100, like a Ford Taurus,
Never go extinct,
I write, therefore I will always exist.
Even if this never makes me shit.
When I die one day,
I know in my heart of hearts,
I came real with it.
Legit with the script.
Legit with the stylo, the pen and hand
You will always be beautiful.
Because to me if you write,
Then you are being true to you.
So I salute you.
Anyone broken or bruised,
I find it so useful, to do what brothers and sisters of the ink
I want to begin a new page.
Flip the script, bring back the words that uplift
While you try and sink my ship,
I dodge icebergs, like Spielberg I direct this shit
But I know Titanic was directed by James Cameron
But let me get to the point of all this.
Because I know what I am writing will be read by a few
At Oddball Magazine, I welcome it dude.
And maybe at an open mic, I will get to read this to you.
But I know I have a platform, to speak my mind with
The pen and pad, or the typewriter
And I have always fought for my life, with the pen or the pencil
And always came real
Even if it hurt me to,
And maybe I am suspenseful with the pencil, and on point with
Maybe the loser is starting to win again.
I just keep writing cause my composition book
Is a trusted friend,
Whos ego matches mine, whos lines I understand,
White lines, Blue spaces,
While I write about the angel faces, who have taken the stage
When I needed a facelift,
And life is a spaceship,
Just taking off the record, like scandalous gossip
Running this section, until I grow nauseous.
But today you caught me in a good space,
I keep it 100,
And stay on to the end, like the movie credits,
Editor edits, Associate tries to discredit,
But the world may not know me yet.
I don’t mind.
Because its my heart, and soul fell into a
And I am alive, cause I write.
I am alive, cause I know I only got one.
And got a story to tell you
Behind the muse, and the music
The recipe and the gun,
The long awaited, sense one
Whos been on since day one.
And we all have our stories to tell.
I just do it through poetry,
And I do it well.
And we all have our muse, and we all have our melody
And some sing better then me,
Some write better then me
But one thing I can say for me.
I am not ordinary
An Oddball Army of one,
Since this story begun…..
And I guess I’ll stop the train of thought.
Here’s the last stop
Now what do you see
When you stare at this inkblot?
Dot dot dot. Coffee in my veins…Try and stop this train
Try and stop, close up shop
But the writer still remains.
Ending this only,
Because I have gone too long.
Bang the gong.
This has been my Tuesday morning
Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.