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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

4th Grade

In grade school I'd pace around the room, up and down the equipment and around it, too

My mind raced like a broken roller coaster---i didn't know what i was thinking of and why it appeared to me out of the infinite blue sky above my confused little head

Was it an episode I was trying to play back like a VCR, or was I trying to give it a new ending? One i felt agreed with me better, where heroes were held back by their capes.

Like a windup train, I'd circle the same objects again and again, never stopping, gazing back at my friends engaged in four-square and kickball---Feeling left out, I knew what outcast meant long before i heard 'hey ya!' So I screamed, weeping and wailing like I was I in pain

The blonde bully, Amy, tells me I'm just chasing my friends away, I'm a pathetic, fat baby, a coward

She remembers the time I stole first base back in gym, literally, I stole first base, picked it up and ran away with the rubber mat in my plump arms


She doesn't know the half of my insanity, The Scream come to life, my mouth could have been sculpted to an 'o' shape with volume dials on my face instead of ears

The teacher who loved baking pastries and buying brownies more than teaching children about pilgrims or metrics noticed my sneaking away from class to the reading space in a nearby corner while her lips were still moving---She knew I was crouching on all fours, creeping slowly to the fables and tales of horror

It's not like she cared, though---The special needs girl wasn't in her cookbook, or her teacher's manual, it appeared

the bratty blonde didn't understand, I wanted a normal life, I wanted to sing, with my friends as backup and nothing stopping me from belting out my first single: when I go across the lake

She would never know how I'd smile to myself after learning the spanish numbers, especially the 'teens---15, or quince, which sounded like Quinn-ce in my mind

I flashed back to black and red slippers, red and black jesters toting guns in a totebag she'd carry around

Amy aiming her taunts at me would chase me around, she could have been running with scissors her words were so cutting

I was ms. plump, tubby, mental girl in the eyes of other children, yet I cared as much as my teacher did about me gaining knowledge

Harley stood out for me that year, I screeched out songs during recess that year, I screamed so loudly and shed so many tears---I paced around the bleak blacktop

Meds didn't work on me that year, the more I had to take, the less sleep I got, wandering around my bedroom space

If I had a pencil I'd erase that year out of my life, tearing a hole through my life, taping in a new past

Then again, I listened to my first Eminem song that year, and hated it

Admiration for the Candy-Rapper

So I like this poetic rapper, Eminem to be exact

Impressive how he creates gory images in stories track after track

A psycho that screams bloody murder, murmurs sick fantasies, won't let you ask

Questions, got a game of Q/A, from A-Z, rhymes that'll take you to school and back

Mr. Mathers' homework assignemts might be too tough to handle, words will take you aback

Not some rich guy from Detroit, Its shady,damn, yes he can deliver like a UPS man

Police lines are crossed, realistic limitations

He can deliver a punchline without hesitation

Calls himself the anti-Christ, established this persona of slim

Swears easy as singing a lullaby, stinging profanities come quickly to him



When I saw his art, pencil drawings, pen scibblings , Didn't know he could draw?

precision in rough sketches sparked envy in me, but overall inspired awe

Inspired me, serious with music, relaxes with pencils and thick bristol paper

Already paints pictures, could paint a day in the park in a freestyle to impress her

The lonely artist, apprentice, learning skills each hour, I'm that aspiring girl

I can lean back, nod in time to the beats and singsong rhymes without a care in the world


He paints, strains, could conjure up cartoon images with more classic material than mickey mouse

He's not this god, has more flip-flops than a suburban girl in summer, but honestly, could out-rehab Amy Winehouse

Recovering drug addict, yeah, great role model, kid,and raps with too much mysogyny

If he raps about killing women and bitches, I'm still a woman who loves the man, his wordplay doesn't concern me

I could go deaf just listening to the same song with a cheerful message of 'fuck them'

yet

When i come back from Truman-show reality, I'm still gonna love Eminem

Verbal Battlefield

Who the hell is this chick? She's been out kinda long, had one hot song, sorry, didn't hear it, must have missed it/too busy being conceited putting on my lipstick, That line is from the Lil Kim freestyle Got Money, mean to be a diss directed at Remy Ma, an up and coming rapper who rap veteran Kim believed had been calling her out in interviews and on songs. Remy naturally responded with a diss of her own in the freestyle When I See Her, aimed directly at Kim, with lines like: "I'm gonna treat her like a check and straight cash her when I see her." The two had been competing for the "Queen of NY" title they each boasted about on albums, and believed they were.

Lately, in the "platinum present"stage of hip hop, when all these talented rappers first entered the game, certain rappers have been calling out each other in songs and interviews, or on entire CDs. before the end of the Jay Z and Nas beef, both rappers released CDs on the same day, with most of the songs on the album about dissing the other rapper. Remember the violent Tupac/Biggie beef that started the east coast/west coast rapper rivalries? Eminem had even gone beyond dissing just fellow rappers, and was dissing pop stars, celebrities, and even members of his own family such as his mother and ex-wife in heated songs.

Why do rappers feel the need to diss others in their songs? Can't the rappers of '09 get past the battles and move on to better things? Even Jay Z and Nas stopped their beef and did a song together. Rap was originally used to get rid of violence and killings, to use words instead of weapons in order to solve problems, yet what happens if rappers take the words to far? Tupac and Biggie each died in violence as their violent beef went on, and couldn't learn to end the battle. I usually enjoy a clever rap diss, a poetic form of insulting that could leave the rival standing there, mouth wide open. In the movie 8 Mile, a rapper disses Eminem's character, saying "you're faker than a psychic with caller i.d.!" Yet insult's can go too far, and usually just to sell CDs, or get a buzz, while it could end up escalating.

Rappers of '09, stick with your own rhymes and ideas, and don't call out rappers, as rap is more about letting out emotion and spreading your voice and words out to the world, not making enemies just to sell a couple more tracks online.

Relapse is out!!

Well...It's been out for weeks

Critics often like different sides of Slim Shady, though he tries to balance them both. If someone first heard these really moving, emotional eminem songs, they'd naturally want Em to keep making songs like those. Or if someone grew up on The Slim Shady LP, which is all about violence and drugs, they'd enjoy the satire and gory details and would demand more passion and anger.

On Relapse, it looks mostly like person no. 2 in my example got their wish. In the song 3:AM, Eminem violently kills people in a drug induced trance, quoting lines from Silence Of The Lambs and describing the blood around him upon waking up.The song is really clever and thrilling when you get past the violence, and pretty creepy as well, and it's also one of the drug-violence songs on the album that turned out great. Another great song with the same maniacal style is Insane, which shows the talent that shady showed everyone in 1997 when he first became successful. The lyrics are playful, yet violent, and though a bit over the top and gross,show he still has the talent and controversial word-play that got him here. Old Time's Sake, an Em/Dre Collaboration about getting high, was a disappointment though. The beat was catchy, but the lyrics were weak and had been used repeatedly before.

Critics can argue there's too much killing and insane, shocking fantasies depicted in the raps instead of emotional, deep songs, but for those critics, there's the song Beautiful, which is about being yourself, and not letting anyone else's words and perspective on you get to you "Don't let them say you ain't beautiful/ They can all get fucked just stay true" the lyrics aren't too sappy either, and though the sing-song chorus can get a bit annoying, the message and beat are amazing, and is one of the best songs on the album by far.

Overall, even though people's ideas of how Eminem's tracks should have been like or sounded are split, Relapse is a great album over all, and I recommend it to anyone who loves rap or Eminem.

Summer

I become the geek, nose buried deep in a graphic novel, strolling through
shelves of comics and MAD magazines losing touch with reality as I pick up a few and read
past pages where the heroes triumph over evil--I give romance novels sour looks like they were cigarettes---addictive and trashy reads are better left for the comic world where villains can waste away the free three months I have

Where I want to be the bubble gum pink-girl, when I can paint pictures with light, sunny pastel shades and sign my name with mascara, forget books for a moment---I'd rather file my disheveled nails instead of old assignments---I can turn back to the playing cards colored red/black polish of '04 back in the days when I was out of touch with the rest of the world

I become the hermit, alone and by herself on hot summer nights when kids appear with jars, armed with nets and cupped hands ready to catch fireflies---I'm locked up in my room--my own prisoner, painting, music blaring so loud it feels like the artist is right there, humming the familiar melodies in my ears, high on the night, I'll sing along as the same track plays back.

I'm alone, that is, until a friend calls---then I'm gone

I'm free after the five hour classes---the school stress crammed inside a few short weeks like clothes in an overstuffed suitcase. For now, I'll change sides--the chameleon of summer who changes moods and personas at will

This summer, I'll be realistic with my idealistic thoughts and plans
still, like a deck of cards, my thoughts will just keep shuffling around

Yo Mama

I insulted a kid's mom today, a one-girl yo mama off, like throwing verbal punches at a cardboard door---picture a door with perverted poster pin-ups that make you want to look the other way

The dirty minded guy with a crude comment stuck by his side like a shadow turns up empty handed as I open fire with my open mouth in position, my tongue burning with possible disses

My competitive school will never know just how mean insults can get, murky swamp green, factory smoke gray insults, so gray the fog blinds, masks the possible well mannered pink dress proper posture girl so cleverly hidden under layers of skin

I try to avoid embracing that side, but guys expect a girl to be that perfect, a goddess in tight miniskirts, yet with the smile of an innocent child

Looking nice is important, yet perfection is life-or-death

You diss people, you become the ugly bitch tossed in the heap of throw-away dirty girls

The one treated like garbage, viewed as the street dog, so dirty you can't tell she's female

Yet when the suburban in badass clothing is dissed with one of my freshest yo-mama's, I get my class to erupt in laughter---a class of 8, subtract half, and three energized kids are left in the room, cracking up at pathetic insults aimed towards his mother

I'm just getting started---

"Speaking of dresses, yo mama's so fat that when she wears a black dress she looks like outer space"

"When she wears a yellow dress, people think she's a giant twinkie!"

"If it's a blue dress and she walks down the street, people think it's a tidal wave!"

I just keep going until the teacher casually enters

the kid is dumbstuck---Picture me sitting behind his sorry back, stifling a bright golden grin

He still can't believe the quiet girl has verbal weapons of mass destruction hidden beneath her smiling face

oh, speaking of faces, yo mama's face is so ugly...

The Melanthiad

Remember Melantho, the minor character from The Odyssey? Didn't think so! Anyway, this is her perspective on how she is supposedly viewed:



I was the loud, in-your-face girl, who took whichever suitor I could scavenge. The one who answered back, the one who believed she deserved the life of a queen. Turns out, retribution is a bitch. You mess around, have a little taste of glamor while the boss is out and the innocent wife is still about, and from then on everything rolls down hill like I’m the one rolling the rock up the mountain for all eternity. My attempts at a new life from then on revolve around my “wicked” deeds. I’ve been a prostitute, a third rate model and a petty criminal, and it’s hard for me to believe that the best life I’ve lived was as a waitress at an off-road diner. All of those lives ended in sadistic pain and abuse. My former tyrant Odysseus believes that I deserve torture for life, as if the hanging wasn’t enough. His teenage son gets to berate me and murder my girls and I in pain, gasping for breath every damned second. I deserved the life of a goddess, I was born a beauty, shouldn’t that count for something in the afterlife? Because I was supposedly a dirty woman, does that mean that my eyes should remain heavily made up, and my skirt always well above my shapely legs? There are many derogatory terms used to describe women like me, and most of those insults came from my ruler when he was finished with every last suitor, and right before my time was up. The old goat Odysseus even wrote a book dedicated to dissing the maids and I, calling us ‘wanton’ and other things as well. I’ve never been a poet, though I was a struggling writer in one life, but here’s a piece about a piece of my mind dying to get my story out so I can finally be at peace with who I am. Maybe now they’ll all listen to me---no---they will listen to me.

I hate to admit it, but I really did love hardheaded Eurymakhos. Sure, he was only there for my mistress, but couldn’t he (and I) have some fun as well as she? Miss lady loyalty, high and mighty with her fine silk robes and golden jewelry, yet so clearly ashamed of it all while her king was away. Housewife of the year! But I don’t mean to be cruel towards the old cow. I mean, she is the one who raised me---wait---she raised me the way I am, so shouldn’t she have been killed off like the rest of us? Anyway, sure she was nice and kind to me, I was always her favorite. She would nurture me like a mother bear would her cub. She taught me which people to stay away from, what not to wear, how to keep from getting dirty—judging by how I turned out, I’d say I paid close attention to her cute little lectures. But, come on! When I was a teenager I had the same desires as any royal, common, or low class girl that age, and let’s be honest---how many ladies out there actually listen to their mother? Her husband had left her for the Great War, so who could make me feel any type of guilt? I was reckless as a whirlpool in the waters of Ithaka, which Eurykleia, the picture of faithfulness detested me for. A typical conversation between us was as rocky as the island itself.

“Melantho! Have you been borrowing the jewels of mistress Penelope? She would be cross as a landlord you hadn’t paid rent to in months, I should know, from experience.

“Miss, I wear jewels that could appear as if they belong to royalty, but maybe they only look that radiant on me?” I would try my best to sound innocent, which would cause the other naughty maids to tremble with laughter.

“You impudent girl! If lord Odysseus were here he’d have cut your head off by now! Get back into the house and return those jewels to your mistress at once!”

The other maids and I scampered like a pack of rodents back to our places, which were cleaning the royal robes (I swear, all those mourning veils Penelope wore!) and preparing the royal food for the mobs of suitors in addition to my mistress and her lazy-boned son, “clear headed” Telemakhos (I can assure you there was nothing “clear headed” about the thick daydreamer). Though honestly, serving food had been my favorite job, as I would attract many drunken suitors, though the only one I knew I could trust was Eurymakhos. Now, I’ve stated before that I was no tramp, but Eurymakhos was the one man in Ithaka who could prove that accusation wrong. I never messed around while we were together, aside from hearing occasional playful wolf whistles from his closest friends, and though he was courting my mistress, didn’t stop to glance at any other maid. We used to meet every star peppered night, black as pitch, so none of my “superiors” would catch me (As a guest, Eurymakhos didn’t need to worry about getting caught). I’d bring with me a jug of wine, which we’d share, straight from the bottle, and remember why we fell in love with each other. Looking back, it was a mere infatuation, but I, for a time, felt like he was the only one that knew I was destined for something better. After hell started breaking loose in the house, while both Odysseus and thickheaded Telemakhos were away, we could easily meet with each other in public. He was not ashamed, though I was just there to entertain him while he dreamt of bright golden riches.

The connection between us was as solid as the lifeline of a God, until Odysseus came back, and performed his Matrix-style revenge, but without the censors----you saw blood, meat and bread cloaked in dust on the ground, bodies laying there like heaps of firewood waiting to be burned. Yet Odysseus would save the burning for me. Except he let Telemakhos do the honors. I bravely cussed him out while he tied the rope around my neck, which won me a slap across the face, and the usual derogatory slang that was directed towards me. I was left, as he tied the knot tighter, gasping for air, my distorted face changing color rapidly, struggling to break free of this sadistic madness. Telemakhos never gave me a chance. Yes, I deserved a chance! I deserved a million chances!! Give me one Life worth living, like the ungodly Gods gave the royal son. Divinity is biased, I swear! I hear Penelope wrote in her book (Yes, the bitch wrote a book) that Telemakhos had become many great things: A senator, a distinguished author, a member of parliament. As I write this, my surroundings grow dark, and I sit in cold hatred looking back at better, brightly painted, cheery, lemonade cooled days, not that there were ever any for me.

Art Class (compliments, spray paint for Angola, and my favorite DC supervillain

If someone comes up to me and says "That's pretty good" or "that's cool" my first instinct is to be offended. The way I see it, "pretty good" is code for "hey, that's almost good" or "I want to be nice to the girl drawing after the bell rang over there, so might as well say something." In comic geek mode, I was drawing Harley Quinn, and it hadn't been going too well. Look at the picture for the post below, and you'll see some red, black and white. I had the idea to make the background sky red, with black clouds and some blue. There'd be a dark street, with a rusted manhole, and she'd be smack in the middle of the picture. The only problem was the face and the right hand, which I had to look away from, focusing on the black and red pastels for the sky and street, which was when the guy comes up to me and says "that's pretty good." When it comes to art, I'm a perfectionist, and like to be told my work is "really good" or "great" if I'm that lucky.

Another time, after I'd finished spray-painting the side of the supply container that my school sends to Angola I'd designed (the container had 4 sides, 4 designs were chosen) and I'd gotten help from my class, who drew awesome peace signs and flowers, and this girl who's a talented graffiti artist, I felt proud. But while my chorus was watching the Angola project slideshow, and showed the beautifully-painted '08 supply container compared to the image of my spray-painted side of the crate some kids right in back of me said loudly "I wish our container was last year's. They did so good and our's was so bad." They hadn't known how hard others and myself had worked on that crate, and how last year, only art teachers painted it. I felt defeated at first, but then I realized, they don't know anything about the crate. They weren't out there every lunch and free period, climbing a ladder and working graffiti magic.

So I was determined after art class to make the supposed ruined drawing better. It I fail with disgrace, I can always make it abstract. I can and will fix the hand and mask, and maybe even get the "that's great!" I've been hoping for.

Childhood Idols

No matter how original you try to be, there was always someone else to inspire that desire for originality

As a kid I admired the villains in my life, cartoons of robbers with special powers, weapons at their disposal, and they would always put up a fight

I admired the bad girls---the tough as hell girls, who could get guys, use guns and outdo the men in battles cleaned up for kid's TV

I would watch the same lighthearted episodes of batman repeatedly, stuck like glue to my seat, silently praying that a deadly villainess would destroy the caped crusader at last

The bad girls wore the dark-colored costumes, crimson, pitch black, bottle green, and could pull off any combination or style----I was never a fashionable child

Others would cheer at the sight of a hero, while I wanted their demise as desperately as any animated psycho could

Harley Quinn, the black-red jester was my favorite---free spirited and ready to kick ass no matter how badly she lost----I wasn't too sane at the time

I painted my nails playing-card style cherry red-and-tar-like black to copy the outfit she wore, because i loved the idea of being a psycotic harlequin

Yet the nails came off as goth, before emo replaced it, instead of lunatic

Were heroines any better? They were all adults dressed in costumes, hurting people, same as any emo-nails-tough girl


As a child I paced around, unable to sit still in a cemented desk, imagining the villains I knew as the victors

years later, the bad boys and girls with the courage to be hard as a coffin still make me thirst for my chance

I now know the line between good and evil--it didn't take a batarang to knock some sense into my skull

yet i still desire that moment

the thrill of being bad

The Question (a bus ride, rap, and an "excursion")

So a bunch of English Classes are on the way to see twelfth night at Navy Pier, and I can't really find anywhere to sit on the bus, so I grabbed whatever seat I could find. Then this guy from my English class starts running towards the bus, and takes the only open seat he can find, which is next to me. Now I knew of this guy, but not well, and I didn't even remember his name. As the bus takes off, and the kid next to me talks to his friends in the seat across the aisle, I realize my pants are wet, and I looked up to see a leak in the roof, right above my seat, thinking "how could this get any worse?" The other girls were wearing heels and dresses and carrying fancy-looking purses, like they were on a date with some popular college guy instead of a freshman class from the north shore on a field trip (or "excursion", as New Trier calls it) to Navy Pier. I wished I'd made an effort to look nicer, instead of just throwing on some presentable looking top and jeans. Problem is, I don't even own a regular skirt, and I'm kind of a tomboy, as I only wear dresses on Halloween for a costume, or If I go to prom or some other formal dance.The outfit I'd chosen was getting soaked on one side of me, while the boy on the other side was debating about the bible with some idiots in front of us. My face is pressed to the window, admiring the blank-gray sky, since blank gray days are less peppy than an in-your-face sunshiny day. I notice the boy tapping a beat on the back of the seat in front, which was pretty cool. I hadn't talked to him yet, so I decided to make some conversation: "What music do you like?" He states that classic rap is his favorite, leading me to jump in with an enthusiastic "Same! which rappers?" He names Tupac, and we discuss the songs we know and love by him. I ask about Kanye West, and soon we're talking autotune, and how many rappers can't do it right, like T-Pain. He even says "hip hop is dead" including Nas in the mix now. I ask about female rappers, and now Missy Elliott and Queen Latifah are in the scene. According to him, B.I.G's "great" Jay Z's "the best" and P-Diddy's amazing (which was a surprise to me, as I think him a sell-out). But it was interesting how he was willing to listen to every rapper, no matter who was feuding with whom, which is how it is with me. during the conversation, he says to me, "you're the only person who actually likes classic rap" and i felt the same way. I mean, he actually knows who public enemy is while many others I've asked about music don't even know Missy Elliott exists.

He invited me to hang out with some of his friends after the play at the food court, and i went along, not having many new trier friends, but being a somewhat distrusting person, i walked away after lunch, which i think pissed him off. (I've had a history of being burned by "friendly" seeming groups, so i was hesitant) I felt guilty about that, and the way home, we were silent. I looked out at the beautifully murky sky, while he talked with the people in front. I swear, I heard him mention "california love" once to them though.

For My Friend, keep rockin' them beats!

"Don't let them say you ain't beautiful

They can all get fucked just stay true"

Even though eminem isn't what you listen to

When we listen to The Black Eyed Peas Boom Boom Pow

and you keep "rockin' them beats" i'm just like wow

it's insane how hyper some days you can be

when you visit town after getting drunk on pepsi

I swear you're addicted to the weirdest things

but this isn't just about the excitement you bring



You don't do shit just to impress or show off

Don't need to buy fancy assed clothes or act tough

We had a fight 3 years ago, I thought our friendship ended

Times have changed, I'm glad for that, and thankful things were mended

I'm sorry you have to visit my dumb as hell suburban town

Just so we can hang out and do weird things and be friends again

We were both Greasers for Halloween, yet we handed out candy in different places

I think you're cool and always will, stop trying so hard to impress those old faces

most thought you were nice, funny, honest and sincere

They thought you were cool when you came back here


I've soon gotta end this rhyme

I can't wait to see you again next time

if you say you're glad were friends, I know what you say is true

So here you go, this spoken-word's dedicated to you

Don't listen to idiots who think you haven't changed

I mean, you have in many ways but haven't forgotten my name

You're still my friend



They can all get fucked just stay true

This one's for you.

Mother's Day

mother
We have had our differences in music

Not to mention TV, cause I’m no fan of Star Trek

I tried drawing you a card three times, and all in my eyes were wrecked

I turn on the shower while you’re talking on the phone

I turned the bathroom to a swamp, and all you could do was groan

But when you bought a case of munchkins, and without the powdered ones

That made us feel, as Jack would say, you really are “the one”

When I blast Eminem from my room you curse my name

And I run like hell for shelter when it’s time for family games

I tried drawing you a Brooklyn house, a beach scene and graffiti on the subway

So I began with a picture of Spock, that looks more like Kirk as Ted would say

Its annoying how you mute the screen when there’s R Rated material

Like if Chappelle were to play a guy eating crack cereal

Or something that looked way too real

Not censored

That could be a train station, subway or suburban street….



I think in rhymes most of the time like that

I don’t know why I’m in this MC phase

But that’s not the message this conveys

If you don’t know I’ll say it anyway

So here it is mom: “happy mother’s day!”

Remy Ma's sentence

If you've looked at my blog profile, you'd know that Remy Ma is one of my favorite rappers right now, and as of the beginning of 2008, is currently in jail. Back in 2007 she was arrested for shooting a friend outside of a nightclub in New York, when found guilty, the possible jail terms ranged from 8 to 25 years in jail, but luckily, managed to get 8 ( though it could have been 3 had she pleaded guilty). This may seem like a light sentence to give someone who had been charged with attempted murder, assault and criminal possesion of a weapon, but compared to rapper T.I.'s sentence of one year and a day in jail for illegally purchasing machine guns and ammo, seems unfair. Fellow NY rapper Lil Kim was given the same sentence of a year and a day as T.I., and for a similar crime to both. Why then was Remy Ma given a 7 times longer a sentence? Her lawyer, Ivan Fisher had defended very wealthy clients, and she had confessed to the crime, though she had pleaded innocent. Do you think Remy Ma deserved the 8 year sentence?

Girl's bathroom

Over here, over here!

should i let my hair fall behind my ears

switch to the strapless top mid-day

Shit, your lucky you have such good knees

my legs are too fat, guys won't notice me!


Girls gather round like chickens in a field

bunched together in packs, i haven't known how that feels

left out,outcast, watching as gossip rushes past my ears

boasting how they did drugs or chugged like 10 beers

the parties they threw and how they're cooler than last year:


look at my lipstick, can you check my mascara?

my boyfriend said i'm so hot i'm like the sahara!

did you hear about the girl and the guy and the freak?

shit, they're gonna think i'm a geek cuz i read a book this week!

i'm gonna date a senior, so i can get to prom before you!

Bet your jealous already, but we have to buy my shoes

fix my hair, get my clothes, i saw a dress i can't even afford!

but your mom's so rich, she'll pay with her money

omg you're so smart, but you look like shit, honey

you need to buy new clothes no scratch that---a new look--- my look

for frikking sake put away that math book!


If they saw me they'd laugh at my pencil stained hands

as I turn the volume up so loud i can't stand it

sketching people i witness, though stress leaves when i draw

sorry, didn't hear about your new tan, i was listening to Nas

they'd ask 'who's he?' i'd just bast some more music

hopefully they'd disappear like i'd preformed a magic trick

Music is magic, gossip's trash

talent is more important than cash


i'm not very talented, just look at my "raps"

but at least i don't hide in masses, talking crap

Rose Dress (Another part-rap poem)

Rose dress--strapless

Shiny diamond necklace

sparkles in the light, so crystal clear

I know prom's so far from here

I can't afford a limousine so i'll take a cab

My date looks great but he acts so bad

This is no wedding so we're not gonna dance

We'll just look on from past the lights from the stands

looking so fine as we start to hold hands

Yet all this is so far away



Today in the spring freshman girls go to prom

with their older men driving them to the dance room

what can i do but just look on with gloom?

Hooked on thinking cheesy romantic thoughts

My hair's not done, no bouquet's been bought

I have no date, life's not looking too great

Even when i conjure up that image of myself

Looking at that red dress stored away on a shelf

so close i can grab it, close as can be

But prom is like 3 years away from me

so how come all i feel is jealousy

Worry and anxiety?



I'm finished my sob story rap, I'm done

Now go and enjoy yourself at prom

Eminem's Relapse

Remember Eminem, the rapper who made a bold entrance into the rap world years ago? He has been gone for 4 years now after the release of Encore, an OK fourth album, (though what makes it ok is that it lacked the fire-like energy of his past three) After 4 years without his rap, he is coming back with a fifth, and later a sixth album, better known as Relapse and Relapse 2. the question is, will these albums be any good? will fans look at him as an old man past his prime if they think it not as good as the slim shady lp?The release date is coming closer each day, with Shady appearing on both Vibe and XXl magazines, rolling stone waiting to review any new single, and eminem even selling "RELAPSE prescription pills" (breath mints), and eminem fans like me are more anticipated by the minute. Don't get me wrong, I have my doubts about the newest album, and the songs aren't his best work. Still, whether you hate or love his music, what do you think of his return?

This is based on a minor character from the odyssey...

a spoken word poem based on a maid in the odyssey: Melantho's rap:

I’ve been a gangster, a hustler in past lives

always a junkie, a whore whenever I try to live

breathe again, see clear water, air again

Dubbed a slut by my master and employer

who’d have thought he’d come back and become my destroyer?

I slept around, messed with all the bad boy’s minds

I wanted to rebel from the poverty and misery, the biting kind

The sort that stings you like a wasp, why’d I cheat on my boss?

My man chasing after my mistress, my life a mess all hope lost

Drunk as punch, drinking punch and other brews as well

Who’d have thought the rose-cheeked girl would become stoned as hell

Early life

My mistress, sweet and bland as morning tea

Always took good care of me

Showered me like a spring rain, with toys and gifts a plenty

the other maids, girls who would later taste success

in other lives, but for now I was blessed

the one with fair skin, hair smooth and black as pitch

who’d think I would become a bitch

A common fool, a slut, a witch

You know, the kind you’d later burn

But I was hung

Rebellion

I began to grow up, and like other girls experiment

with berries red, hell any color let all cement

on my face, I was causin’ trouble all over the place

lookin’ so fly

you don’t hafta ask why

I was looking so hot like I was 4^th of july

Then all the men come round and they wanna court my mother

she’s not a blood relative, and I was looking way hotter

sexy as can be, fresh like the nectar of the gods, that’s me

I met my man that day, waiting among the throngs of men

I poured him brew and we drank till drunk, collapsing into bed

from then on we became close as sword and blood

except he wanted my “mother” instead