a pack of my favorite pens;
three dollars.
a notebook to write in;
one dollar.
releasing these words;
priceless.
The pen and paper have replaced
Two hour couch sessions
With a therapist trying to get to know me
By playing twenty questions:
Do you love your mother?
Yes
What about your father?
The biological one or the one at home I call pops?
Do you love yourself?
Good question.
Cmon man, what is it you really want to know?
That I was sexually and physically abused
before reaching the second grade
That I lost my virginity at thirteen
Became a predator at fifteen
That at twenty-nine, I continued a family trend
and became an invisible father.
Or
That i have suicidal thoughts
Every time the sun rises
So as the therapist taps his pen
Im wondering is he thinking about me
Or about ways of investing the kickback money
He’s is going to receive for making me
Part of the increasing Prozac nation
or does he really want to ease the pain
But he doesn’t understand I need the pain
That I write because of the pain
And writing helps dull the pain
And if I don’t write
I will succumb to the pain
And die
So forgive me if these pieces
Contain a lot of I’s and me’s
Cause these open mics and slams,
are my group sessions
So I bare my soul, each time I spit
And I don’t care about getting tens
Or Being the last poet standing
Or that in a room of a hundred,
seventy-five…don’t get me
Twenty-four… sorta feel me
As long as I….reach one
That one…who at the end of the night
Will hug me a little tighter
Who’s handshake, will be a stronger
Or better yet, wont say a word
Just sit there and stare
Cause their trying to figure out
How I reached into their head
And pulled out their nightmares
And How I got the strength
To stand up here…and be judged
As people point there fingers at me
And whisper about me
Call my poetry simplistic and elementary
That even though I
just slit my wrist and bled out for three minutes
They still don’t understand me
but that’s ok, cause my poetry
isnt meant for them anyway.
I wasn’t sent here for them
I was sent here for those
Hiding their pain and wallowing in their fears
So they will know, they aren’t alone
That someone else has walked in the daytime
While living in darknes
And that things..will..be..alright
a pack of my favorite pens;
three dollars.
a notebook to write in;
one dollar.
Opening the door for someone
to come into the light from the darkness;
Priceless
2006 Copasetic Soul
5 comments:
Copa, get the hell out my head LOL...i feel like this all the time. if just one, if just one....then our purpose is served.
i say the same about neosoul, the mic is my therapist, and we pay a $6 copay at the door.
hmm u got the wheels turning....smile
by the way i will check those artists out...thanku
Copa-each poet who writes from the soul and not just to create a piece of art understands where you are coming from. I think sometimes it is easy to get caught up in the "show" part. I am writing lots, not doing much new on stage. But it is real poetry. There are lots of things I personally identify with in that peice as well as the sentiment. I know that sometimes people write about the stories of others and sometiems we write our own stories. Dont need you to tell me which this was, just know that you spoke to many sources of past pains for me. And it makes me feel just a little less isolated you know. And then, that is part of the point isnt it. ;)
This post was SO worth the wait--much love from my soul brother.
Sir Copa, I've been quietly reading your stuff (since 13, Shelle, and Sarah encouraged me to stop blog-stalking and start blogging too) and I definitely am feeling this one!!! To me, there is something to be said about the poet that exposes themself and allows the audience to witness that nakedness. A poet's vulnerability, in all its forms, may just end up saving another person's life.
Hey - you I read your stuff - especially good stuff like this - and I normally read the LJ blog more often I thought that was the one you were most apt to post in. Tell me where I should read dude!!
Give into the aching...for all that it's worth, it is your inspiration.
Oooooooooh you don't know how I feel you. I love to see honesty on the page. There is NOTHING like an honest pen. Beautiful...life changing...Inspiring
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