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Have you ever had the feeling that flaws show up everywhere

In sketches that make others wonder why the drawing was of a photo and not your own design?

Cared too much about a drawing not from out of your head, that still takes up paper and charcoal when you sit down to work

Is she innocent, just playing along while still vulnerable, a victim of corruption, or just a thug with a burning love for her man?

Of course I don't copy other drawings, I think up poses and attitude captured in stony facial expressions

I borrow ideas and inspiration from cartoonists, and still I leave their work untouched

Drawing a little known cartoon female can be frustrating, when no one knows who the drawing's of, why that pose and face and nose---what exactly is her name again?

In my mind, she's this gangster lady who's hopelessly in love with a violent man who's not too sane, yet they are lovers all the same

She wants to be good but has played the part of the villain for so long, her vision of right and wrong has blurred like smeared ink

She's not my drawing, and if it didn't come out of my own tired head, how could I brand it my art?




I steal from cameras, taking in images from magazines of the women in my life who speak to me through raps

I'm inspired by the women I listen to, all real and alive

When I draw what a photo depicts, could I make that my own?



My art teacher tells me I have to connect my drawing to the other students'

He demonstarates how my drawing doesn't play well with others

Treats my artwork like a schoolyard bully, criticizing its selfishness, yet remprimanding me

Says I have to tape out large sections of my drawing---obliterating pen marks I'd made and felt proud of


I leave the class, wondering what art really is

My own design gets taped like a crime scene

I lose cred fast if it's not from my brain

I am defeated by pen and ink

I will pick my old allies up back up, and jump back into the battle soon enough

Word association (The Outsiders)

Greasers
Hoods
Jackets
Leather
Rough
Rumble
Wounds
Tragedy
Comedy
Two-Bit Mathews
friend
loyalty
trust
hope
Johnny Cade
Robert Frost
poetry
innocence
trouble
struggle
Darrel Curtis
Black Coffee
labor
roof painting
minimum wage
gas stations
drag races
Steve Randle
blue eyes
eye makeup
b-girls
girlfriends
breakup
moving on
keeping strong
Sodapop Curtis
mickey mouse
horses
fields
churches
light
fire
cigarette
cancer
gun
shot
bullet
silver
rust
faded
Dallas Winston
Hard
Rock
heavy
weight
loss
death
sorrow
mourning
morning
sunrise
sunset
fiery
glow
bright
gold
Ponyboy
Greasers

My Ideal Heroine

I read the short story, Red Dress, 1945 by Alice Munro for English class, and wasn't happy with the narrator or ending, so I decided to make up my own protagonist for a story. The poem refers to the short story often.



The smile of Tupac Shakur hits you like a jolt of lightning

When one enters this girl's room---clippings from The Source and Vibe

Give off the vibe that this girl is inspired and desires to express herself like an artist armed with cans of spray paint and an idea like a blue sky

This girl doesn't wear red dresses or dream of getting the soft kiss from the obscure guy with the curly black hair and shell-toe Jam master J sneakers she somehow never noticed

Her mother fears the tight embrace of hip hop culture, even after this girl has taken it by the hand and followed it like a stray cat across alleys colored with rhymes and poetic verses tagged on walls that the city just missed in the growing quest to clean up New York

This girl wears tight jeans---tight as in sharp, as in skin-hugging snug against her legs

She wears a worn white T shirt just to see the look on her prim old grandmother's face when a black bra strap pokes out and leaves a lasting impression of this soured child---Gold hoop earrings, hot pink shell toes---two turntables and a microphone replace the brain in this girl

This girl is no whore, though she'll occasionally dress up to tease the boys and paint her face with more makeup than a child experimenting with her mother's cosmetics for the first time

There's nothing special in her looks, though she carries herself like she invented posture---don't mistake her step for b-girl swagga---she doesn't get in pedestrian's faces or shakes her hips with each move she makes on murky concrete and littered walkways ---she saves that for tonight

Like MC Lyte, this girl doesn't create herself a persona for the stage, she's already fierce, explosive like a gunshot ringing in your ears once she spits out a couple verses----metaphors hit her like a speeding bullet, she personifies like hip hop himself was there giving her his stare, waiting viciously for her next line----though she'd see hip hop as a proud woman,

The boys rapped like girls and women spouted out the hottest lines in this girl's mind

She loves the poetry of New York's greatest male MCs, don't get this girl wrong---she'll reach out to California, Chicago, as far south as Miami for the inspiration she craves---She can tell the men are dominant in this game, she will beat them

Tonight she wears her brother's kangol---He isn't here, but off into the murky night, always lit by kitchen windows and sirens, off with b-boys in oversized wifebeaters
Blasting music out of boom boxes with words about guns and street killings

These boys aren't looking for a fight, only the look on people's faces as they see this posse on the corner slouched up against alleyways talking huddled close so one would think they were scheming

In reality they only talk like the thugs they imitate in fashion


After this girl grabs the mike and shows this crowd how untouchable she is, she slinks back into her seat

guys call out her name

girls whisper in packs about what this girl believes to be her downfall

This girl is not gonna last long----She sticks out, doesn't stick to a beat, sooner or later she's gonna taste defeat

She doesn't have any respect to gain from rapping, no acceptance to win

The man of her dreams? already got one, well, not of-her-dreams, but still a man who knows his job

There is no kiss at the end of her story---some romance, but never sealed with an awkward embrace---This girl doesn't need to marry to be fortunate

She's happy smoking in public school bathrooms, on crowded street corners in sweaty summer nights---in winter the cigarettes are replaced with hot chocolate at diners with associates

This girl has no friends, only cronies and well-wishers---she looks the part of your average b-girl stereotype, yet feels out of place in a normal setting

She fills out surveys in trash magazines, gushes about boys with other girls, kids who this girl will later write off as 'boycrazy'

This girl is merry in spite of all the ups and downs, wins and losses--She is fortunate, hopeful like the ray of sun that first wakes you up



This girl can be black or white, Latina or Asian, thin or fat, strong or fragile


All we know is she is from New York, has the desire to be an MC she will never fully fulfill and thinks positive in spite of it all----Her attitude might sour in later years

This girl doesn't have a set-in-stone future, hair color, name

In the story she might be a somebody, yet has no identity----at least not one I gave her.

Rapping and Reality

I think that it was stupid and reckless of rapper Remy Ma to shoot her friend over an argument with money, and something terrible to even shoot someone in general, however I don't believe that Remy Ma is necessarily a terrible person. When I listen to one of her songs, I don't think of buying myself a gun and some bullets, or sneaking out to smoke or drink on late nights at packed, seedy clubs. I listen to the beat of the song, and though I hear what she's saying, I become less frustrated with my life and whatever's bringing me down that happened at school. Remy started rapping because she was angry about her situation, and her family's struggles with poverty in the Bronx, and rap helped her vent; she wasn't planning to go out and shoot people in real life.

Of course, I can't compare my frustration and anger to Remy's, as the issues she struggled with weren't just momentary feelings of being bummed out or annoyed. Yet it still helps to play her songs at times, when I want to shut out the world and sit all by my lonely self until that feeling I can't shake off dissapears. It wouldn't help to make the argument that it's all just pretend, though; remember the shooting incident? I don't think that Remy intended to get involved with real-life crime, or get slapped with 8 years in jail. She may have just gotten carried away and thought she was above the law, having enjoyed her taste of fame a little too much. Still, when it comes to rap music, it can be hard to tell the difference between music and reality when rappers cross the line.

My mom's a very liberal person, yet had gotten the idea that the rappers I listen to were poisoning my mind, and turning me into a trash talking rebel. She hated the idea that the hip hop subculture was turning me against the law, and towards "drug addicts" (Eminem), "drunk drivers" (T.I.) and "jailbirds" (Remy Ma, O'l Dirty Bastard, etc.) She believes that Remy Ma is a terrible person for wounding someone, that T.I. is a bad person for endangering lives while driving drunk, and that Eminem, who "almost died" as a result of his addiction, is an awful role model. I don't turn to those people for life lessons, and certainly don't keep a pen and notepad by my side while I turn on their songs so I can take notes from their music.

It's frustrating when a rapper goes out and commits a crime for real, because then, any protest that rappers are "just putting on an act" can be forgotten at that point. However, no matter what message a gangsta or hardcore rap song conveys, it's important for fans, parents and authorities alike to remember that these rappers are musicians, not role models. Missy Elliott herself said that parents need to stop turning to artists to be kid's role models, though her music's relatively positive and upbeat. Fans can enjoy music while not copying every bad decision a rapper makes. Also, parents need to know that people can do terrible things and make bad choices, but that doesn't make them terrible human beings or Musicians. Tupac made plenty of bad choices in his lifetime, yet his lyrics were beautiful and poetic, just listen to Thug's Mansion, though in that case, aspiring writers should take a note or two from that song. Eminem is getting over his addiction for the sake of his daughters and is back making great music, and is now making good choices. As for Remy Ma, well, she's got 8 years to redeem herself, and hopefully will have changed for the better.

Guilty Pleasures

"Go Shawty, its yo birthday, we gon' party like it's yo birthday/we gon' sip baccardi like it's yo birthday/and we don't even give a fuck it's not your birthday!"

The hit song by 50 Cent, In Da Club, embodies all of the negative stereotypes associated with hip hop culture. The song glamorizes being violent, throwing money around, gangs, collecting hoes like they were gardening supplies---there is nothing poetic about this song, and the lyrics are vacuous. heck, even 50 sounds like he's not into the song at times. It's a terrible excuse for a rap song, yet I play it repeatedly, until the beat drills itself back inside my brain. Kevin Coval, a poet I admire, said that 50 Cent himself is a negative stereotype of rappers, and I agree with that, while still blasting some more of 50's rhymes through my radio. Another rapper I listen to is Self proclaimed "Queen of the South" Trina, a woman who degrades herself in her own songs, and uses the word 'bitch' to punctuate phrases in her raps. That didn't stop me from buying her albums, though. I respect her as an artist more than 50 Cent, as I only like a few of his songs, yet her lyrics, no matter how catchy, are just as vapid.

Bad rappers, no matter how often I declare my hatred for them, will always have a place in my heart, and on my CD shelf. I feel like I'm as shallow as the artist after listening to a hip-pop song, or that I'm a hypocrite when I detest suburban kids for pretending to be rap fans while autotune is dominating the track they leave on repeat. I feel as dirty as a middle aged woman with a secret love for tabloids and gossip, after looking back in disgust at what I just listened to for 10 times straight, but while the song is on, I'm in the moment, nodding my head to the beat, tapping my fingers as the pounding techno beat bursts through the air like cannon fire. I will lose myself in the music, the moment, own it, then snap back to reality and remind myself that I was not listening to 'Lose Yourself', and that 'In Da Club' is still blaring at glass-breaking volume. I tell myself that Soulja Boy can't touch Nas, and Missy is the rightful queen of the south. If hip hop was all about autotune, bland melodies and disney star cameos, it would be pop, and a platinum present would become the Flo-Rida future---right?

We still need those sucker MCs to brighten our dance floors and set the mood for that friday night when the party is wild, and we feel invincible. There's no need to battle---not while that song I heard on the radio, like, a week ago is turned up so loud it's making my body swing in time to the rhythm and now I'm a queen looking down on those fools below me with no taste in music at all----Oh, wait, why was I listening to that song again?

Gutter Child

I sleep in the gutter, drowning in an ocean of trash

Gangsters and hoes lulling my aching eyes shut

Lyrics that feel like a breath of fresh air become the dead rats that haunt city subways

Words that deal out death threats and degrading rhymes like decks of cards

Is all my music is to the ears and eyes of my brother

I try reading him a Nikki Giovanni poem about the death of Tupac, and he stops paying attention at the sound of 'pac'

At his age i thought all poems had to rhyme and sound like copies of Silverstein
while today I want Missy Elliott and Eminem to shine through my poems like rays of sun

He thinks up lines that pass me by as I try to write a poem based off a 10% diss from MC Lyte

He writes a poem about bad seeds, yet can't listen to a note that the baddest seeds spit

Never spit seeds, use your words, I'm told----What if the seeds aren't planted or spread, but thrown away or held for a few moments before letting go?

For a moment I'm jealous---he writes better than I did at that age, and I had to be inspired by the music he calls gutter trash

If i play just one line from Nas, he writes it off as something Ludacris, worthless as 50 Cent

When a poet rhymes to a beat and drops lines that contain bad language my brother calls that Gangsta rap


My writing skills are challenged by the boy who doesn't look to rap for inspiration

now can anyone notice why I harbor such frustration as I review my situation?

He doesn't know tagging from grafitti, break dancing from gangster swagga

Lines as effortless as his that can capture mood is what I'm after

I think think up lines that might score a 5 at a slam at best

My brother though a budding rhymer dosen't treat it like a test

He conjures up images, armed with clever lines mixed in with his action-movie filled mind


This morning I tell him He's a good writer

He tells me I draw well as he takes another bite of banana

This stings like a wasp---I want to write well, I hope to sing my own songs and release albums

It's my dream to be recognized for being clever with a pen, writing rhymes like I was painting pictures

Then again, what does he know?

He's quick to label artists as if they were cans of soup---SHE's showing too much cleavage, HER skirt's too tight, HE wants to shoot his foes point-blank, why did he use the f word 4 times in that line?

He rejects the poetry that he himself can learn from, yet knows how to weave together words without the help of two turntables and a microphone

I'm just the girl that lies in the gutter while my favorite MCs corrupt my mind

Slacker Girl (Dirty south, Two Outsiders, and Sleepless Nights)

Get them teeth fixed, spray some sheen on those dreads/get them bags out your eyes, get some rest and go to bed


The line, meant to pierce an up and coming female rapper like a blade, that contained the patronizing, fake-sisterly advice kept playing in the back of my own tired head

up late, school tomorrow, drawing needs to be complete so I can wake to something more pleasing to the eye

This test will boost your grade/Study well and pass the class/Think of how freshened you should feel, once you've slept sound at last

I miss my friend, who lives in another suburb far from me and who is surrounded by boxes in the white-brick home with the odd-looking ceiling---I wrote a poem about him earlier, trying to guess at what his reaction were to be if by chance he read through---Would he laugh, or shrug it off like a playful insult?

You can't stop by the market for giant soda bottles with an imaginary friend, or wander through town, mocking the countless McMansions with an invisible teen---We're both Greasers--outsiders looking to belong, yet trying to appear as if all we wanna do is take your money like M.I.A.---But I was drawing, not thinking about paper planes---Trina was spitting through my headphones instead

We are learning about planet Earth---an area where I have a lot of faults in a subject I manage to coast through each class like someone who just doesn't give a damn about the future---the words 'career' 'reality' and 'study' sound foreign to her

that rebel, rap junkie, antisocial and awkward teenage girl who can waste a night instead of brushing up on plate tectonics---She'd rather stroke that brush across a canvas she got from her uncle who paints strip malls and naked women

Dirty south rap newcomers lacked the country-fried zest the 21st century claimed they captured---When i think rap, I think of the wild west coast that brought Tupac and Dre---the east streets, gritty new york city and its not-so-innocent little sister, my own Chi-town stuck in the middle of both sides like a diplomat

The new south rappers were like mosquitoes to my ears, while my favorite female MCs weren't gonna have music riding the radio waves anytime soon---Remy Ma was rotting in prison and Southern queen Missy's album seemed too far away from my stereo

Then came the Diamond Princess---She raps about sex, money, getting glamorously drunk---What every decent fellow hates rap for spreading around like Swine flu

Her voice and lyrics are filthy---yet they're dirty in a way that repped the south, and showed she was Still Da Baddest---southern belle gone gangster, yet Trina never mentions a bullet---she doesn't wish to see tear-stained caskets or funerals

I listen to her song while I work on art of my own, but hers is the kind of art that I could listen to, feel higher than a paper plane, above my own art supplies and paper and pencil, then remember who I am and float like a leaf back down to Earth---a planet I know a C grade's worth of information about, where I loose sleep while my papa will preach to me on how I need to care about this class


A headphone falls out of my left ear as I scribble madly to the beat of the song, my masterpiece looking like a piece I hadn't quite mastered--Just one more stroke, fix her cheek, shade in her dress, capture the mood, make her look to impress---You'd think I was six again, playing with a dress up doll to fit my standards

Then again, I should have been studying, sleeping, sweaty from the heat, dreaming of a failing grade and that tag-along girl that won't stop asking if I'm awake as soon as I drag myself up out of the steaming covers

Get them bags out your eyes, get some rest and go to bed