Tragedy: A Poetic Short

They use to tease him incessantly.

He confessed to me

he struck back out of necessity.

Words were a weapon he

came under attack from especially

hard that day.

Unexpectedly,

emotional stresses he

used to endure,

he couldn’t take anymore.

He was enraged as he ran out the door.

Echoes of laughter

permeated his grey matter.

His recollection blank thereafter,

until he was captured
covered in the spatter

of blood scared and trembling –

settlin down from the adrenaline rush.

Smokin shotty still stuck in his clutch

after the tragedy.

Still out of touch with the reality

of what he committed.

Somehow unaware that he did it

consciously,

but every night he relives it –

awakened by his very own screams.

Even in death they torment him in his cell it seems.

-HymnAgen

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Hidden Colorism

Remember when light skin

used to be in style?

I don’t

because I never felt I fit the profile.
If I was armless I could count

the number of times
on both hands the frequency

with which I was called “fine.”

You see, Papa was dark skinned,

but Mama had dominant genes,
so me and my sister slid out in between,
but with a heavy lean

in the direction
of Mama’s complexion.
And not fitting the stereotypes,
I longed to be more his physical reflection –
smooth and brown like chocolate.

But like film negatives,

I was the opposite.

With that said,

the inferiority complex

in my head

was largely sub-con-scious

until a sista on deck

looking to fix up her chicks

pointed out there were no other

light skinned brothas in my clique.

That epiphany was profound.

Had I chosen to surround

myself with homies

all much darker shades of brown

unbeknownst to me?

Even the ladies in my life

except for two

were never bright in hue.

I thought light-skinned girls

had funky attitudes.

When in truth,

it was my attitude that stank.

No one else to thank

for my internal schism.

My reverse colorism

was finally exposed.

A lack of love for my skin color

self-imposed.

I was a walking contradiction.

My sense of self

at an unhealthy juxtaposition.

So I analyzed my pre-teens,

and realized

what I had seen

I internalized.

Where I grew up

light skinned brothas didn’t seem

to get the same respect.

I recognized that disconnect.

The hustlers and thugs

was pulling chicks I couldn’t get.

And unfortunately for me

these kats were disproportionately

more melanin saturated,

reinforcing my self-hatred:

A casualty of internalized

racism with a twist.

Light skin might have been in style

but I didn’t experience it

as a net positive –

evident to me

of just how damaging

white supremacy can be –

demanding hands-on management

of my self-esteem regularly

so I don’t lose myself again…

so I can love me as I am.

-HymnAgen

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First They Came...Again

Why should I be made to feel

like my ordeal is somehow not real –

as if it lacks validity.

Look, I don’t need you to pity me.

I didn’t make this sh!t up!

Is it ignorance, stupidity,

or moral insensibility

that won’t let you wake up

and smell the danger?

Instead of shaking your head

at me when I take to the streets in anger,

why don’t you ask me

if it’s true that the police harass me?

Why don’t you question

cops need for military grade weapons?

Who knows you might be the next one

to endure their wrath.

You might be the right race,

but damned sure the wrong class.

Sometimes the only thing keeping them off of yo @ss

is having blacks and browns around to pound into the ground.

Ya dig? Or did you forget about those

Occupy Wall Street kids already?

-HymnAgen

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Breaking the Block

Alone with my thoughts

I cavort with my muses

to recover the inspiration

that has been so elusive of late.

With pen at the ready, I wait

for word play to surge like flood gates

have been opened.

I pray like sowed seed

for this drought to be broken

allowing thoughts to flourish,

to nourish dry sheets with wet ink

like parched earth –

letting each word I birth sink into its fibers,

creating a record.

A snapshot in time

preserving a piece of my mind.

Recognizing my efforts

as if they have some intrinsic value to humanity.

But maybe that’s just my vanity speaking –

My ego’s fear of being forgotten

as if I was never here.

Because what I hold dear

is what I will never see

with my own eyes:

That being my own legacy prized

In the future.

Recommended reading

for learning institutions

discussed at poetry club meetings and the like.

A lofty place to set my sights upon.

I don’t know if that’s right or wrong,

but it’s honest.

-HymnAgen

The Park Bench (PS127)

I took my seat

on the painted split wood.

A chain link fence

near where a tree stood.

Broken glass glistening at my feet.

The weak scent of piss

from where two walls meet 

behind the school on the air.

A 40 ounce cap

repurposed a blade

to gut a Dutch Masters

on the ground lays

near a pile of tobacco.

Ever present, the sound

of basketballs dropping

through hoops to the ground.

The slap of pink rubber

striking concrete slabs.

The sound of young children’s

giggles and laughs

suspended by chains

and stainless steel boards

as they swing ever higher.

Their feet reaching for

the heavens.

Memories from a

bench at P-S-1-2-7.

-HymnAgen

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Pride v. Integrity: From the I Wanna Talk to My Brothas series

Integrity?

Worth more than money.

Money?

More valuable than pride.

Be willing to sacrifice money

to preserve integrity,

But don’t mess up your money

trying to protect your pride.

Wisdom will determine

which one is really at stake;

The wiser you become,

the less you will confuse the two.

-HymnAgen

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The Real War

I feel the frustrations of a nation

rising from the fear of genetic decimation,

comingled with the fear of continued subjugation –  

suspicions fomented by cultural isolation.

As predicted by the Kerner Report, we are two nations.

Now allow me to draw this correlation:

These conflicted populations

represent in this equation

North and Southern Hemispheres,

and the Southern’s realization

that the North ain’t played fair

since before colonization

right through today’s economic exploitation.

Wherever Southerners live

feels like we’re under occupation

by the military arm of rich Caucasians.

See these abhor their own poor.

They ship them off to fight their wars.

Those who survive are given multiple tours.

If they hate them to that extent,

just imagine how much more

they hate your black @ss by simple extrapolation.

Poor race relations is a tool

that keeps us both acting like fools

subjecting our ridicule on each other

while they rule over us both unchallenged –

secure in their positions,

divide and conquering potential opposition.

Remember they killed King AFTER he spoke up for the poor

and that imperialistic Vietnam War.

Don’t get distracted by their tactics anymore!

That white and black sh!t is small.

This is a war being waged by classist b@st@rds!

-HymnAgen

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LADY

Did you mute the RJM Lounge Player first?

Sista, I do not need to see the tops of your breasts bare

to know they’re there,

nor the flesh of your cheeks where butt and thighs meet

to know you have a bangin physique.

My days of roamin the street

lookin for women to meet dressed like freaks

are far behind me.

That garb only reminds me

of how trifling I used to be.

Now, I know each of you is able

to bring more to the table

than I used to give credit for,

but stable employment and ambition,

titles and positions

might as well be breasts and cheeks, too,

if used to accomplish the same mission.

Sista, are you listening?

I'm looking for a queen, not a vixen.

I want a partner, not competition

who's always trying to put my pants on

attempting to lock me up in the kitchen

barefoot and metrosexualized…

Huh, neva that.

The woman I've conceptualized is

neither nor. They're too extreme.

I love y’all somewhere in between –

displaying your self-esteem like plumage:

With your shoulders back.

and head held high.

Sexy regality displayed in every stride you take

with that pendulous ladylike gait –

Leaving somethin to my imagination

without looking colder than a battle hardened soldier

in corporate uniforms with broad, padded shoulders.

I want to bathe in the rays of your femininity,

and behold you in your wondrous femaledom

as it was meant to be fully appreciated by all

who are blessed to be in the presence of – a LADY.

-HymnAgen

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Road Trip

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Addiction (Tormented)

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An Ode to My Peers, The Urban Poets

It’s been a rollercoaster ride

since I decide to share

my poems in the cybersphere.

And through that medium

I’ve discovered peers

who love this medium

for their emotions paired

with kindred spirits –

masters of prose and lyrics –

speaking to each other’s souls.

Do you hear it?

Encouraging each other’s roles

as voices for the world’s humanity.

As voices for those embroiled in the insanity

of day-to-day survival,

but unable to find the words

to describe in their own voices

all the things they’ve seen,

and heard,

and felt

as my peers do

with eloquence and humility:

Giving birth to dialogue

from the seeds of soliloquies

initially meant to vent

our own frustrations and triumphs.

Yet through the universal nature

of the human situation

our voices break the silence

of the muted.

We find ourselves spokesmen

of the gamut of human emotions

through compositions

others might read and/or listen

to and find new hope in.

My Brothas and Sistas,

y’all got me open!

I thank you for what you do,

and I pray one day

the world will too.

-HymnAgen

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The Right Word

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The Charge of a Bard

There is no such thing as THE truth

No facts.

No proof.

No pure information

untainted by human inclinations –

just consensus and probability

of just how likely

disparate minds are to agree

with what another sees and processes.

It seems we’ve become obsessed with

objectivity for political correctness.

This is an intellectual unicorn.

See, on the planet THIS human is on

everything is subjective.

Every testimony reflective

of the biases held by its

speaker..............NOTHING excepted.

So those who choose

to deliver their perspective

fully aware of THESE conditions

should be acknowledged and respected,

for they are…the POETS.

-HymnAgen

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A Hero's Remembrance

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The Lesson I Wish My Father Taught Me

*****Please check out Phenomenal Paris' "No F*ckin Just Lovin" Her perspective really gives context to this piece.*****

I mistreated her like she was a ho;

she deserved much better like she wanted,

but she just didn’t know how to secure it.

And me being man-whorish then,

I took advantage of her thinking:

Being willing to bend is how to get it.

So I mistreated her like a ho.

She thought I’d be a good man.

I asked her, “How could you know?

We might’ve spent ten hours total

since the day that we met,

and half of that was spent engaging in sex?”

She said, “You’re smart. You look good,

and you know how to fuck,” matter-of-factly

like that was enough to judge a brotha,

start a future with brotha,

make a brotha her man,

and that’s some shit I just could not understand.

So I took stock of myself and didn’t like what I found.

I reconsidered all this fucking around that I’d been doing;

not considering how screwing and some quality time

has the potential to mess with their minds.

 

So I thought I’d found the answer –

we should be up front.

From the jump, I’ll let’ em know what I want

and that way they have the option

of going along to get along,

but that answer proved wrong.

I didn’t treat this other one like a ho.

I treated her like a friend with benefits.

Said I didn’t intend to be anymore than that in the end.

She agreed then flipped and tried to make me her man.

Now just because I hit it raw

(she) thought that I wanted more.

I had to sit her down to settle the score,

and she explained how feeling skin instead of rubber

meant I loved her in her mind

in light of all the quality time we had together.

So if I seeded her, it was whatever.

Must’ve meant I wanted her forever.

Those ties I had to sever;

put two and two together and learn

that their emotions are always concerned.

This pattern got repeated far too many times.

Forget her words – it’s her heart not her mind running things

when her feelings start to get involved,

and any rules y’all agreed to will just dissolve.

Now there is always an exception to every rule,

but by and large a woman wants a man

and you’re a fool if you think having sex and hanging out all the time

doesn’t make you a mate candidate in her mind.

I was blind.

I couldn’t see that truth.

Young, dumb and full of cum

like every other black male youth I grew up with.

There’s more than you bargained for.

If they give even a little, believe they want more.

They wanna to be loved.

-HymnAgen

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Choices

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Love and Lust

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The First Law Of Thermodynamics

Click on image to enlarge

Listen to this piece on SoundCloud

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The Love That Never Was

Did you mute the RJM Lounge Player first?

Until this day, I can’t forget her.

I’ve replayed the day I met her

countless times over the years.

And still, whenever I hear

Keith Sweat sing, “I Want Her,”

I see her face in my mind’s eye.

That was our song,

but I was not her guy.

I was hooked by her girl next door looks,

her modest style,

her Cleopatra eye make-up,

but her infectious smile at me

when I said, “You have the prettiest eyes,”

tied a brotha up in knots inside.

Damn butterflies –

I had birds inside my belly.

Turned a brotha into jelly

with her “thank you.”

Sometime later, wasn’t shit that you could tell me

‘cause she hit me with the same compliment

and I was done,

but somehow I could not make myself the “one.”

After work she’d wait on me to take her home.

Throughout the summer, spent mad hours on the phone.

Religiously on Saturdays we made our calls

until she went away to college in the fall.

It was over before it started,

and my countenance fell.

My lack of access to her

became my living hell.

Eventually I got a grip

and I moved on.

Played my games with silly chicks

who did me wrong.

Did my dirt too and had my fun,

even fell in love with one

‘til finally all thoughts of Girl-next-door were gone.

But then I’m walking through my campus

unaware that she had transferred that semester.

When I saw her, called her name out and she answered,

and hearing her voice again was confirmation that God is real.

Did all I could to stay cool,

but I just could not conceal how glad I was to see this girl again.

Wondering if this was now my second chance.

So finally, I ask her out 4th of July.

Promised views of fireworks from 74 floors high

over Manhattan. It would have to be an awesome sight to see;

and she had options — many of them — yet she chose to come with me.

But I didn’t appreciate it. 

My Plans fell through; I got frustrated.

Self-destructed in front of her, and transformed into an ass.

I made the evening a disaster. Even worse, in its aftermath

I told her things I should not have said;

mean-spirited shit to burn that bridge,

and severed ties to her as if she lacked the capacity to forgive

a brotha for poor planning.

That revelation was damning,

‘cause it suggested she had a deficit in compassion and understanding.

And what did that assumption on my part say about me

when clearly she had options, but chose to spend her time with me?

Now years have passed. We’ve lived our lives.

I think she’s married .I have a bride

who I love with every fiber of my being.

Yet and still, I can’t forget her.

I still replay the day I met her,

although I have my doubts she ever does.

Still she appears in my mind’s eye

infectious smile, Cleopatra’s eyes

is how I’ll always remember the love that never was.

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You Can't Change A Man: Logged In: hymnagen- PoetryVibe.com

You Can't Change A Man: Logged In: hymnagen- PoetryVibe.com

You Say You Love Me As I Am (inspired by "You Can't Change a Man" by the Poetess tretre on PoetryVibe)

You say you love me as I am,

but there’s no possible way you can

while still clinging to the hope

my love for you somehow evokes

a need in me to modify my behavior.

When you love me as I am,

you accept and understand

that I cannot change a thing that’s in my nature.

My compulsions and my vices

are completely different things;

I may give up cigarettes

but take up gambling and drink.

So if you love me, just accept me.

How I am is what you’ll get.

If the two of us connect,

and share a mutual respect

I will gladly swap my vices

for some others you can bear –

ideally, even share.

But baby doll, let me be clear;

the components of my character

are the things that make me “me.”

They’re the things that you adore –

my endearing qualities.

You like when I get a jealous

of your attention from other fellas,

feel secure when I’m protective,

but baby that’s ‘cause I’m possessive.

However, you don’t like me saying that you’re mine.

Hold up.

Blow the whistle.

Let’s call time.

There’s a flag on the play.

No one these days can have it both ways.

So if you love me, girl just love me –

fine and fit ‘til I’m old and fat.

When your nipples reach your belly

and the rolls by your bra strap

start to appear, I’ll still be here.

That is what acceptance does.

I’ll accept you as you are then

because you took me as I was.

-HymnAgen

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Some Reasons (Why I Write...)

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