When I was a kid,
I thought that “gay,”
Was a new thing.
It was my understanding,
That it began in the ‘80’s,
Preceding the HIV/AIDS epidemic,
Which it was directly linked to.
When my dad took a moment,
To explain to me what gay meant,
I remember that it didn’t bother me,
But I knew I didn’t understand it.
I’m fairly certain I responded,
“Why?”
He didn’t have an answer,
That satisfied my curiosity.
But at the time my interest,
Was more in the disease,
Then the “new” social thing,
That sprung up out of the blue,
Just before I was born.
When I was a teen,
Fag became slang,
For everyone I didn’t like,
And gay an insult to everything else.
I didn’t know anyone gay,
At least I didn’t think I did.
It seemed like one of those things,
That only happened in big cities,
With posh people,
And access to all those crazy drugs,
Which DARE to say No,
Eventually explained,
Were the main culprit,
Behind the AIDS conundrum,
That had piqued my curiosity,
So long before.
I remember coming into my sexual age,
And being very uncomfortable with who I was.
I didn’t like myself,
Couldn’t imagine anyone else,
Who could either.
I had always liked girls,
From kindergarden on,
But all the sudden,
Some part of me,
Questioned if I wasn’t different.
Some part of the rhetoric,
I had grown up listening to,
And shouting out myself,
On the blacktop at recess,
Had sunk in and made me think,
That maybe the parts of me I didn’t like,
Might be because I was,
One of the gay kids after all.
It was around that time,
That I started to learn,
That gay wasn’t as new as I had thought.
Turns out it may have been around,
Since at least the ‘70’s,
At least that’s what,
The lesbian porn I saw,
Made me think.
I remember sitting silently in my room,
Maybe 15, maybe 16,
And wondering if I was so weird,
Because I was “a gay.”
Because at 15 or 16,
I still associated weird with wrong,
And wrong with gay,
And didn’t see anything wrong,
With that correlation.
Whenever I had those thoughts,
Usually after the girl I liked,
Didn’t like me back.
Or whenever I would hear,
One of the bullies at school,
Say it to a friend,
About me or someone else,
Because we were one of the different kids,
That they just didn’t “get.”
I would always conclude,
That I just couldn’t be.
Guys are gross.
They held no interest for me.
As I got a little older,
I came to learn,
Yet again,
That gay wasn’t just a thing,
That was new to our world.
It seemed that the ancient Greeks,
Had a thing for boys,
In generations past.
“Must be a cyclical thing,”
I though to myself.
Like bell bottom pants,
Swing music,
Or snap bracelets.
A fad that comes for a while,
Then leaves again suddenly.
That’s what I thought.
Gay had a 2000 year gap,
From Socrates to Liberace.
It explained why no one knew much about it,
And why,
As a society,
We weren’t dealing with it very well.
I sure wasn’t dealing with it well.
In retaliation for having been bullied,
I became one.
Tore my best friend to shreds,
For reasons unknown,
Because I became a homophobe.
I wouldn’t let men I thought might be gay,
Touch my stuff,
Let alone shake my hand.
If “some homo” even talked to me,
I would visibly cringe,
And act disgusted.
But the worst part was,
I knew deep down,
That I didn’t care.
I wasn’t worried.
I just didn’t want anyone else,
To think I was gay,
Because of how strongly,
That negative connotation was.
So I was absolutely awful,
To truly wonderful people,
Based on some peer pressure piece,
Of guilt laden bigotry,
I had picked up,
And shoved in to my own psyche,
Because that’s what I thought,
I needed to do,
To fit in better.
Because it was easier,
To unite in hate,
Than it ever was to do the opposite.
As time went on,
Men and women I knew,
Started to come out.
I had done some reading,
And more importantly,
Some logical reasoning,
Leading me to uncover,
The fact that there had been no gap,
And gay had been around all along.
It hadn’t skipped over the ‘50’s,
19, 18, 17 or otherwise.
Men had loved men.
Women, women.
For as long as men have been men,
As long as women been women.
It was only our self imposed,
Puritan values.
Leave it to Beaver fantasies.
Hatred and oppression,
Of the things we,
As individuals,
Can’t wrap our heads around,
That had taken a perfectly natural thing,
Then degraded it,
Defaced it,
Criminalized,
Persecuted,
And shunned it.
We made it socially acceptable,
To hate someone.
Hate a million someones.
A hundred million or even billions of someones.
Past, present and future someones,
Because of a preference for something,
That we don’t necessarily have.
We made it ok,
For our children to see us hate something.
Hate someone.
Well it’s not ok.
Hate is never ok.
Not for race, religion, sexual preference.
Differences shouldn’t push us apart,
They should bring us together.
Because the only way we learn,
Grow,
Adapt,
Change for the better,
Is to ask questions and listen to the answers,
And not be afraid to love someone,
For who they are,
However they are,
As unconditionally as we can muster,
Because,
Let’s face it…
Religion,
Race,
Sexual preference,
Didn’t start,
The day Moses was born,
Or the first slave ship landed on African soil.
And they all certainly didn’t pop-up,
As some new fad,
In the 1980’s.
None of those things are going away,
None of those things should go away.
The only thing that should,
Is hating one another for being different.

I Wish I were outside,
Not in this shop,
With this dust, this dirt,
And these halogen lights.

All it does is depress me,
Repress me, Upset me,
Aggravate the Hell out of me,
De-motivation to Work.

It’s not just the building though,
My coworkers are a drag,
They tell lewd jokes and laugh at farts,
They’re satisfied with being nothing.

What I do all day is nothing,
And I have no right to complain,
I haven’t done a thing to change it,
I just accept it, detest it, and regret it.

I could do better but I don’t,
Am I lazy, crazy, needy, greedy?
What about my condition has me so conditioned,
To accept my failed position?

It’s not just this shop,
Not just these coworkers,
Not just Me,
I can’t blame society.

So what, So what can I do,
To tempt myself, to attempt myself,
To change what I have acclimated to?
Nothing, Nothing but bitch and moan to you.

The sun was shining,
I was trapped inside,
My throat was dry,
From sobbing,
Until my eyelids,
Became anvils,
Weighing down my ability,
To see the beauty of life.
What I had lost,
Was incomparable,
To anything I could have imagined.
My heart’s beat,
Was so burdened,
I didn’t think it could pump even an ounce more,
Of what I had left,
To the parts of me that needed it most,
And I didn’t really want it to.
Each breath I took,
Burned in me,
Like a fire stoked so hot,
That the irons turned white enough,
To sear a mark in my flesh,
Telling the world,
That I was a broken man.
Every part of my thoughts,
Which once knew how to rationalize,
Any detail of any facet of any event,
To a point where I could laugh it off,
And declare everything a choice,
Was now so single focused,
An amoeba could get a Phd.,
In advanced physics,
While all I could do was dwell on something,
That hurt so bad,
I had no choice,
But to bow down and pray for mercy,
From a god who couldn’t hear me,
Or wouldn’t choose to listen.
Every emotion I knew how to conjure,
Rushed around in my soul,
Like a tsunami after an earthquake,
During a flood in a drought,
After a plague had already pronounced everyone dead,
The day after they finally found the cure.
It was a tragedy to be me that day,
It was the saddest day of my life,
Fortunately it hasn’t happened yet.
Every bad day I have had,
Isn’t half as bad as my worst day.
I don’t like knowing that it’s coming,
But I’m thankful it wasn’t today.

I don’t want to label it,
A self full-filling prophecy,
Those times when you just,
“Know,”
Something is going to happen.
Because I believe that we “just know,”
Things are going to happen all the time.
Then on the off chance,
What we worried about,
Does happen,
We tell ourselves,
“I knew it!”
And use that as an excuse,
Not to be brave,
Or adventurous,
Or to just live sometimes.
We shut down ourselves,
Out of fear that we might be,
Just like Nostradamus,
Able to see into the future.
And then every single worry,
Transforms us more and more,
Into a hermit crab,
Wrapping a shell of past prophecies,
Around us ever tighter,
Until we find ourselves,
At home in our discomfort.
When we are young,
Those fears,
Those false psychic powers,
Those visions of future calamity,
That rest at the borders of our imagination,
Have not yet proven themselves,
Occasionally right.
So we live without fear,
So much that we actually take the time to live,
Not simply use our time to stay alive.
Not that risks.
Are the things that prove to a person.
That life is happening around them.
But my opinion is.
That avoiding the opportunity.
To say yes.
To the things that worry you the most.
Is the same as giving up your freedom.
Because you had an errant thought.
That slavery might be pretty fun.
And,
Despite the glaring differences,
Between worry,
And oppression,
When a person lets worry,
Take over what could have been,
A life worth living,
Because they chose to believe,
That a few bad days,
Gave them the power to predict,
Each of their own minor tragedies,
Then they are,
Effectively,
Giving up their freedom,
To enjoy themselves.

Like a band-aid,
Swift and sudden,
Does the thing that protect us,
Suddenly leave us,
To fend for ourselves,
Amidst a world of limitless unknowns.
A loss of innocence,
Finding out that life is truer,
Than it feels when you’re a kid.
Past the minor tragedies of Santa,
The Easter bunny,
And the tooth fairy,
Come the harder hitting facts,
That mom and dad are just as fallible as everyone else.
That death is forever.
Or, somehow more painful,
That the pet gerbil didn’t really escape.
He’s not living free amongst his people.
He’s dead,
And you were lied to.
It’s our first existential crisis,
Before we can even grasp at the straws,
Which enlighten us to know that existentialism is really a word.
Not just some Dr. Seuss,
Made up,
Nonsensical,
Whimdansical,
Nonmadeupicus,
Snuffelupagus.
Which, subsequently,
Was the name of the gerbil…
It’s hard being lied to by mom and dad,
For whatever reason,
In any circumstance.
They are the ones,
Who you are supposed to trust,
With everything,
All the time.
It doesn’t ruin a child’s life,
And those little white lies,
Aren’t ever big deals.
But something about mom and dad,
Stepping off of their pedestal,
Feels like the same kind of disappointment,
That Dorothy felt,
When the the great and powerful Oz,
Stepped out from behind his curtain,
And turned out to be,
Nothing more,
And nothing less,
Than an ordinary man.
Ouch.
It’s a little thing,
But it still hurts.

There will still be weddings and birthdays,
Births and baby showers.
There are events and shows,
Friends meeting for coffee,
Farmers in their fields doing the things,
That have to get done.
Students in school,
Men and women at work.
But somewhere today,
Someone is grieving a loss that shouldn’t have happened.
People are laying in gurneys,
And being tended to,
For wounds that wouldn’t otherwise have been there.
Today a bomb went off in Boston.
An otherwise beautiful Monday,
Brought to its knees in tragedy.
A nation is,
Once again,
Shocked and appalled,
By the misdeeds of others,
Who set out to intentionally,
Hurt, harm, maim, murder and kill.
The questions arise over and over,
From mouths of millions,
“Why?”
“Who would do this?”
“How could they?”
“What were they thinking?”
All mysteries,
None of which we will know the answers to today.
Today we wait,
And we mourn,
We feel shock and awe,
And scorn the likes of those we suspect may have caused this.
Today we breathe a little deeper,
Sigh a little louder,
Pray a little harder.
Now is a time where we reflect,
More than most other days.
Even still,
We continue to live,
We go about our daily lives,
But today isn’t a normal day.
It is a soon to be infamous one.
April the 15th will now be listed,
Among the calendar dates of other tragic days that “We the People,”
Have been forced to face,
By the thoughtlessness,
Hatred,
And misunderstanding of others.
Today is a day when a country’s gut wrenches,
But its citizens show the true strength of their character,
Of their will,
Of their faith in each other.
We go about our routines,
And follow our plans,
And some of the best of us change our plans,
To make it known,
That we are here for one another.
We are here to help.
We are here to make this whole complex series of events,
Which we call life,
A worthwhile series of events.
That’s what we have to do,
More importantly,
That is what we,
As one nation,
Choose to do.
Today.

Sometimes it’s a bummer,
Being on the receiving side of a gift.
Makes you question your own recent actions,
As you list them against everyone else’s.
It doesn’t detract from the good you do,
Or did.
And someone else’s kindness,
Shouldn’t be something that makes a man,
Feel guilty, pathetic, or poor.
But it does.
From time to time,
A negative thought or emotion,
Sneaks its way in,
And corrals the positive action,
That was done just for you,
Into a pig-pen,
Of filthy self-hate.
Makes you want to do something,
Not out of the goodness of your heart,
But to make things even.
When it shouldn’t be about even.
‘Cause life’s not fair.
There is no even Steven.
There is no shame in saying “Thanks,”
When someone just wants to show you they care.
So why does it feel so strange,
Now and then?
Why is saying thank you,
Smiling warmly,
Shaking hands politely,
A thing to dwell on even for a moment?
It’s almost as if,
Someone along the line,
Trying to be kind,
Gave us a gift,
Said it was for us to use,
And didn’t know that the packaging,
Was all just emotional baggage.
Samsonite’s Guilty Line.
Comes in all black,
Or leopard Print,
With a lifetime warranty,
Good for birthdays,
Holidays,
Dinner with family,
And Saturday road trips after a friends big pay day.
Oh well,
Can’t seem to shake it,
Guess I’ll just say thanks.
So…
Thanks.

Each time I write,
I hope I fit together,
Something worth saying.
Often times what I jot down,
Means little to nothing,
To no one but me.
I impress myself,
With clever one liners,
Or rhyme together words,
That meant something to me as a youth,
Taking phrases I heard,
Or stories I remember,
And plying them like putty,
Until they seem like something memorable.
Until they feel like something repeatable.
Until I am able to coax together enough prose to hope,
That someone might just be inspired,
By some silly thing,
That I thought to say.
The value is,
That once in a while,
I do think I find the right words,
At the right time,
With the right amount of inspiration,
To make a difference.
To change an opinion.
Motivate a soul.
Or simply express my most complex thoughts,
Into a few lines on a blank page,
So that I can share my love,
In the only way I have,
That doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
I write to express myself,
To tell stories,
To bleed my feelings onto paper,
Courtesy of my scalpel like pen,
Razor sharp wit,
And a desire to never have to cut myself,
Like so many people do nowadays.
Because they need to feel alive.
Or need to feel like dying.
I share my poems for myself,
And for you,
And for anyone else who needs to take a minute,
Remove themselves from whatever hardship they have,
And hopefully enjoy something worth listening to.
Not every poem,
Not every time,
Will mean something,
To someone.
I’m certain there are someones,
Who will never be touched,
By my attempt to connect with them,
And that’s fine.
Because I have faith,
That at least one someone,
Will take away something I say,
And be all the happier for it.

Hip Hop,
Is just poetry with a back beat.
Words strung together,
To move your feet,
Inspire your mind,
And jump through time.
Music and words combined,
To change your life,
And invigorate the blind.
Pulses etch out feelings,
That the words indelibly carve,
Into flesh and bone,
Heart and home,
In an easy to share,
Happy to hear,
Impossible to fear,
Be all,
End all,
Combination of things that define us,
As human.
When man made music,
It was to communicate.
When man made words,
It was refined.
When man made music,
Mixed it with words,
And rhymed it,
Into blurs of passion,
Poignancy,
Alliteration,
And meaning,
It took the beauty of what it is,
To introduce your soul,
To another,
Stretched it out,
Shook it up,
Sped it up,
And spun it on a turntable.
What could be better than that?
Communicating meaning,
Performing passion,
Expressing emotion,
Entertaining millions,
All at the same time.
Hip Hop,
Poetry,
Music,
All integral parts,
To the piece we play,
For others to hear,
So we don’t have to just say,
I love you.
Instead we shout it,
Mix it,
Remix it,
And blast it on the radio,
However we can,
Whenever we can,
For as long as we can.
That’s the magic of the modern age.
Freedom of communicating how we choose.
When we choose,
And for what we choose.
It doesn’t matter if your preference isn’t hip hop,
Mines not.
But the act,
The desire to communicate with my fellow man,
I respect that.
You should choose to respect it to.
Choose respect.
Choose respect.