I'm sorry ya'll..I'm just in a poetic mood today. The poem "Post It" was written by Nafeesa Monroe...here is one of my own. I didn't title it yet. It needs some SERIOUS editing..and it needs to be finished.
Poetry isn’t that special something that can be written quickly and without much thought
I mean sure
Some red neck, country bum can come up with a FEW short lines for his prostituting girlfriend stating, “I love you
Especially when you make me a sandwich
Oh yeah, and take care of my 3 kids from em 3 other womenâ€
When it’s obvious that there is not much love
At least not much love being shown in this home
To his three kids
Even if there was love being shown
The red neck, country bum wouldn’t stay home on his lazy behind all day
And spend that little bit of government money that they receive each month
On drinking, you know, the booze
Strip clubs, and more prostitutes
When it comes to me, and my beliefs, I just cannot see why
This red neck, country bum, doesn’t strive to provide for his girlfriend and most importantly his own 3 kids
His girlfriend and I aren’t asking for much!
Just to help out enough so that there is no need for her to work the corner of Main and Utica
Universally known as the streets
And in the words of the one and only Rene “Brewedsosweetâ€
“The streets are filled with drugs and unnecessary killingsâ€
And killing is what this 20-year-old woman has seen
And drugs is something that at one time she has had to redeem
To pay the rent
And speaking of rent,
Rent is something she wouldn’t have to pay
If she would have stayed home with mom and dad
And accepted that local college scholarship
But no,
“Mom, Dad, I’m in loveâ€
But her parents and I have always questioned in the back of our minds
“Can love pay bills and get you SOME kind of education?â€
But we made the dumbest mistake and said “she’s older, let her find out for herselfâ€
And two years later,
After she had made the choice to put love above herself
Engaged the day she turned 18
Married the day she turned 18 and 3 months
Never got pregnant once,
Well at least so far
She can’t help but ask..?
Or maybe I should say that we couldn’t help but ask?
“How did I end up here?â€
Which to me, really wouldn’t make much sense explain
And as I am telling her this, I get tired of dealing with such nonsense, I exclaim
“Reread the poem one more timeâ€
As I say this, she stops, just like I was joking
Questioning me in such a way, like asking, “What crack have you been smoking?â€
So this time I try to be clear
Making sure that she knew my fear,
For her
But what else can I say?
What will I be able to say?
When she wakes up and asks me “What were I thinking on THAT day?â€
“The day when I moved outâ€
Well, I won’t be sure what to say, but I will defiantly tell her that her family and me were in doubt
Will she start to pout?
Or will she cry?
Will she think of the unthinkable thing, wanting to die?
Or universally known as SUICIDE!
Crashing down on a young woman’s dream,
And if she ever asks me,
I’ll respond with
“This isn’t a nightmare, and this sure ain’t a dream! You can’t wake up now hunny,even if you scream.â€