Dmac
08-04-07, 08:32 PM
The streets are cool te beat is cold
she can feel the frost bite in her feet
as she stands on the block spitting her lyrics
soundlessly into the night air as passer-bys hear her words
momentarily they turn to listen to what she has to say
as she s[its her generic flow of rough poetry
passing between her cold lips
as her voice cracks her eyes wander to her half full cup
she's optimistic like that
she cracks her knuckles as she dramatizes her words and expressions
she changes her body language to add more to her lessons her experiences
her words and times , skill and rhyme
determine whether she eats tonight
her thoughts lost in the translation
asshe moves from love to hustle and from hustle to flow
snowflaking her hair, a jumbled mess
with three coats and different colored socks and jaced workman boots
her clothes define her style and her crowds love her for it
her words bringinforth a picture of the troubled streets
the hungry, cold child, whose eyes seem to penetrate their concious
in the back of their minds, as they add more coins to he cup
her hair badly asking to be washed yet dignified
with a quiet beauty in her stance, her eyes lost and wondering
she reminds them of an old soul lost in a young body
a story teller lost to them as children they never had
and as she finishes her words twist with grace and appreciation
as she utters in the night, "thank you for listening, bless yall and a goodnight"
with this she exits her stage to go find herself some real food to eat
and so was a day a small note in a passage belonging in the life of the poor poet
the one whose skills and habits had nicknamed her the lone poet
she can feel the frost bite in her feet
as she stands on the block spitting her lyrics
soundlessly into the night air as passer-bys hear her words
momentarily they turn to listen to what she has to say
as she s[its her generic flow of rough poetry
passing between her cold lips
as her voice cracks her eyes wander to her half full cup
she's optimistic like that
she cracks her knuckles as she dramatizes her words and expressions
she changes her body language to add more to her lessons her experiences
her words and times , skill and rhyme
determine whether she eats tonight
her thoughts lost in the translation
asshe moves from love to hustle and from hustle to flow
snowflaking her hair, a jumbled mess
with three coats and different colored socks and jaced workman boots
her clothes define her style and her crowds love her for it
her words bringinforth a picture of the troubled streets
the hungry, cold child, whose eyes seem to penetrate their concious
in the back of their minds, as they add more coins to he cup
her hair badly asking to be washed yet dignified
with a quiet beauty in her stance, her eyes lost and wondering
she reminds them of an old soul lost in a young body
a story teller lost to them as children they never had
and as she finishes her words twist with grace and appreciation
as she utters in the night, "thank you for listening, bless yall and a goodnight"
with this she exits her stage to go find herself some real food to eat
and so was a day a small note in a passage belonging in the life of the poor poet
the one whose skills and habits had nicknamed her the lone poet