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