when Legends Die (RIP Heavy D)

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Every time a legend or a supremely talented artst dies “too soon,” I get scared. I become fearful of my own destiny. Most, certainly not all, of the icons and legends died at relatively young ages. Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix, to name a few. I’m soon-to-be twenty-five years old and on the brink of pushing through and completely stepping out there with my art. Part of me feels I will have a timeless place in this thing called life. But there’s a part of me that asks, “at what cost?” Do I really want to place everything into my passon, knowing that it may be the thing that kills me? It’s like a Dallas Green line: “How safe it is to feel safe?”

Would I really rather, “die enormous than live dormant?” Do I even have the right to place a cap on such a blessed gift? That seems selfish of me. Where is the balance of living *my* life, and doing what I can to impact others? It is a tough concept to grasp that maybe my story ending abruptly is what this world needs. I am reminded of that after an artist’s untimely death, and it makes me feel cold. I lose the will to create. I question my worth. I…doubt.

What is meant to be will be. I just have to accept that as reality.

The Next Thirty Days (Journey With Lyric)

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It’s been sixty (technically, sixty-one, counting today) since my guitar, Lyric Roxxanne arrived on my doorstep. After the first thirty days, I streamed my thoughts via Twitter. And rather than bombard timelines again, I figured I would sort this set of thoughts here in my personal space.

Where to begin? I’m still not very good at it. I am struggling with having clearance between strings. Because of that, I don’t consistently get a clean sound when strumming. Then, there is the strumming process. I am not very accurate at picking all the correct strings every time.

In addition to that, I only have a few chords committed to memory: two forms of G, C, E, Em, Cadd9, and Cmaj7. I have them learned, but not applied. That means there is hesitation when changing the chords, resulting in missed or unpressed strings.

I realize it is a process to learn. I also realized that the patience I need to maneuver through life is the same I need for Lyric. I tend to want to know and be good at everything so quickly. I want answers immediately, if not sooner. I tend to look at my fingers and feeling inadequate, despite recognizing them beginning to stretch and be more comfortable on the guitar. I have to embrace the journey and growth that will happen while I learn this beautiful instrument.

I need to change Her strings.


Peace.

Loneliness When Writing (Freewrite)

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(Editor’s Note: Inspired by a discussion on Twitter, I decided to ask myself a question and write down whatever thoughts came to me. Totally unedited, save for syntax.)

Do I feel lonely when I write?

Well, I guess I would have to first answer why I initially began writing.

Hmm.

Therapy seems like such a cliche answer.
I can’t remember too many times where writing made me feel “better.”
No mood lifted.
I think.
But there are other forms of therapy, right?
I do write so the inspired voices in my head will temporarily leave me be.
But are they bothering me?
Does that imply that inspiration is a nuisance?

No. It can’t be. Without inspiration, my life would be useless.
Or driven by someone else’s whims.

But do I feel lonely while writing?
I do feel alone. That’s certainly not the same.
Is that willful solitude?
Yes.
Is that bad?
We all need time to ourselves.
But writing does make me feel vulnerable
And sometimes, we need another source of energy to help us cope.
Is that the purpose of my muse?
Probably.

All these rhetorical questions
And not one real answer.
Maybe answering wasn’t the goal.
Perhaps just being brave enough to question myself is the aim.

Interesting.

Such a simple question that I have done mental circles around.
“Answering” it and other tangential inquiries.
That may or may not pertain to how I see writing.
Again, that all feels cliche.

I mean, I definitely wouldn’t write if I didn’t feel I was good at it.
Honestly, I wouldn’t write if I didn’t think others would think I was good at it.
Acceptance is real, even in therapeutic exercises.

I guess that’s how some cope with loneliness.
I just pick up the pen…


Peace.

Writer’s Block/Solar Eclipse: Space and Time

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I don’t have the time…
Rather, I don’t have the mind…
To put my thoughts in a straight line
Something like graphing cosine…

(x). The variable, ever-changing
Should I rename my realm X for all this rearranging?
That’s an easy rhyme, gonna have to do a little better
Brainstorm in her realm to create rainy weather


I feel her arms hug me, her hands caress both atria
But right now it’s hard to find the end to her body’s mazes
I begin at her thigh but am halted underneath her ribs
Or I can massage her shoulders but hesitate when it’s time to kiss

If there’s no time like the present, then she is the gift of my life span
Pen to pad til nothing’s left like my right hand
I stand…to be the answer to Shakespeare’s query
With the precision of an assassin and the desert Sun’s fury

If it’s writer’s block to some, then I’m in a Solar eclipse
If I’m 93 millions miles from her, these are the times when she’s distant
Kissing the constellation of her frame in the stars
Seconds are ours as the clock bends to our rhythms

Light years isn’t a measure of distance, it’s our radiance in space
Time brightens when we meet face-to-face
Thoughts rotate on her axis
Strokes of ink til her leg quivers as she climaxes

Built up arousal leads to poetic aggression
Pinned to a comet she controls post-eclipse sessions
A supernova that illuminates the heavens
Now if only I can finish this last sentence…

Peace.

Page II: 60 Minutes

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I’m going to keep doing these page-by-page sessions until whatever it is that’s on my mind is on paper. This may go on for awhile. I wrote this one while on break today at work. In 60 minutes, the following was created. Anyway, the text is after the picture of that page…in some kind of order…


Page II

Either I’ll be super-strong, or faint.
Feint the jab, throw the hook, with the right cross
Uppercuts, roping dopes in the corner
Combinations of similes, metaphors, rhyme schemes like flavors
Keep that pen pressed to the paper

Yup. It’s…heavy…need that Dilla echo
Open the flood gates, my mind’s levies blow
Understanding the potential on my shoulders…

The first letters of the last 7 lines is how I feel about brake rotors

3600 seconds = 10 enlightened heads in a cipher
60 thoughts given 60 1/60ths to inspire
Before the next one gets its time, maybe they’ll all become lines

In my personal cipher
I call it the “ipher”
‘Cause my 3rd has the vision
No need for the C

When did Roman numerals become trendy?
Did Italians use Arabic to be different?

Why do I skip lines if I know that thought’s completed…?

I gotta go hoop
See if I can still shoot
(insert current NBA reference here)

Where’s Lauryn? I’m searching every Hill
I don’t smoke, but if I have to, I’ll roll a million L’s
Boogie a thousand nigh, be miseducated hundreds of times
I just need to hear “Manifest” sung live…ome more time.

I probably shouldn’t stare into Badu’s eyes
Because I have no shot if 3000 was hypnotized

Got more soul than a sock wit a hole
Sorry, Madvillain came thru the ink flow

I wonder if I had to fight for my freedom physically
Could I shoot a missile the way I blast similes?
They’re anagrams & both do a lotta damage and
Are in the name of write as devestating answers

Is being “deep” all the time a sign that the world’s shallow?
Do I even want that responsibility?

I guess I have no choice, Johnathan isn’t my 1st name, but The Creator’s call of service;
to inspire continents and spark the nervous
Nothe emotion, the system, ’cause a lotta people listenin’
So I gotta have something to say, peace to Phonte’
Whether or not we’re related, I got billions of Little Brothers
In need of meaning, I try to give ’em some like the drummer

60 minutes – no stopwatch

Peace.

One Notebook Page: Mind Unrestricted

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I decided to let my mind go without restriction for one page in my notebook. If you can’t read anything in the picture below (and I don’t expect you to), the content is after it…in some kind of order…


Book of composition…

Pages become art, I draw conclusions
Sketches of thoughts, the words start moving
Twisting, turning, going back to where they start.
End it with a dot like the mark for confusion

Question: Why do falsettos open up her divinity?
I can’t sing that well, but high octaves mean everything to me.

Solutions:
Mixed in the flasks
Robber w/o the mask
Thief in the night, stealing lines from my mind
Like swiping my brain’s cocaine stash

Left-handed, writing style’s unorthodox
Thoughts deep enough to drown those inside the box

Still can’t focus……

I like the game of chess…Black Knight am I
L-shaped movements; game of strategy
thought still scattering
Too my brain and threw it against my skull, splattering

Margins?
That boundary means 0
Like Gil’s Adidas to the Impossible
Nothing…

Nothing even matters…
At all…

Am I scared to really let my mind levitate?
Interrogate to Exclaim
My punctuality won’t ever be that straight
Forward.
Reverse.
In.
Out.
Maybe my soul’s sick of me and all this doubt.

If my minds wants to shine
Then dammit, J, let it shine

(avoid cliche’ rapper line about “the grind”)

All over th e place, touching all realms of thinking
3rd *eye* blinking

She is the magnet that pulls it together
The Sun my mind orbits.

I just scribbled a 7
Is that a subconscious microcosm of my gift’s heavenly connection?

Peace.