Monday, October 13, 2014

Acapella Lyricism: My Mind is in Formaldehyde (Timeless)

(This piece is meant to be heard, not read--please watch the video.)

What keeps you alive will eventually
Kill you like a pack of Marlboro Reds
To kill the constant leak of yesterday's stress
Music is my savior so it's like cancer to a fucking asshole
Who never appreciated a day in his life, until remission
Then joy became his mission
When I close my eyes I'm surrounded by Van Gogh
They say a picture is worth a 1000 words
So I'll forever search for synonyms
To influence my metaphor and mannerisms
Sometimes I'd rather mask it in a hoodie
Of street colloquialisms but appropriation
Has hit its all time high since
The beginning of colored people time
So I really shouldn't give a fuck
If y'all can't relate, then you renovate
And suddenly you become the leader
Of the new school
But I'm the one that's late
Like I missed my cue on the music of life
And told critics the piece was meant to be
Slightly ambiguous (a lie as one dimensional
As a pyromaniac's interests)

Hip-Hop inspires me so much you'd swear
I wanna be a rapper
But I'm just a writer trying to walk that fine line
Between lyricism and poetics.

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
We're Under the Influence of Music @ d'Verse...

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Monday, October 6, 2014

The Significance we Miss

Comfort in your own skin
love that only comes from within
yet, a lot of us are searching
not knowing where to begin
instead of analyzing flaws
appreciate the beauty in anomalies
like the pastel pebbles that line sidewalks
and cradle blades of grass.

Dodging blessings we think we don't deserve
like a native's refusal to do the rain dance
in the middle of a drought.

Beyond the aggravating rituals
I learned to love,
how you carry yourself
is peace brought into existence
amidst the world's chaos
like a drink of clean water.

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

We're writing about the little things over @dverse...

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Monday, September 22, 2014

How They met Themselves

Every time I ran my hands through my hair,
I felt the sweat, dirt and gravel from between the toes of
my ancestors. Faded, Dark Caesars release the spirits
as they, too, fled to France in search of flowers without
thorny stems that bring droplets of bad memories
with each sprinkle of salt in the water.
Rinsing sugar scrubs that remove dead skin 
like Garra Rufa that pool in Turkish rivers, 
where the current's strength reminds me 
that everyone goes through a time
when they're not strong enough to stand
on their own two feet. 

It doesn't mean they're at the knees
of their rivals: it's the makings of a rebel getting lessons
on survival

And still, I wonder if it's just me:
a half-moon-haired bastard who sacrificed 
everything to give his all to what started as a soliloquy;
but selfless, like cutting ties with my doppelganger
as he's a harbinger of death.  

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

Poem inspired by Brooke Shaden's, 'Thorns That Flowers Grow;' 
And Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting, 'How They met Themselves.' 
For d'Verse - Poetics

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