Remnants of the Left Behinds

***actually an old piece from 2012 that I wrote after the passing of Don Cornelius...its original version is on this blog somewhere around that time frame....I made a couple of small changes to it, and this is what I'm working on memorizing now. I stumbled upon it while looking for some poems to learn and this one stood out so ...coming soon.  For now, please have a read : )   ***

Remnants of the Left Behinds.



Where you were when the pills were swallowed

Or who you laughed with at the same moment the body dropped


Or do you just keep it moving

Grooving to your own tunes that you stay engulfed in …exiting only for a brief breathe of fresh air and to see what all is stirring in the life pot…..


See out here

In the real world

We live to die

Dying to live because it the easy thing to do

Wishing we could take back the take backs and start over on right tracks but too lost to get back to where we once were, so we become suicidal thoughts acted out without the theater…

Conflicting resolutions in search of the truth

Waning optimism because no one seems to be there, ever

Everyone is somewhere else when the first set of pills goes down

We don’t always wanna pay somebody to be around, so let the left behinds get some counseling for their grief instead…


Someone will be laughing when the gun blast sound reverberates across brown temples

Rich men falling limp on beds

Poor girls, legs spread, tired of giving her vagina to the world but doesn’t know any other way to be loved, so she does what she does best


Only this time it ain’t semen


We are the needy….people shun at us and call us demons…..

Banish us to Hell’s kitchen for sample of the cookies

Often laughed at, looked for inside of caskets and cried over after facts

Take that take that,

We sound like  Diddy as we raise the first foot to jump off the ledge

No longer caring about the left behinds, we move forward into darkening lights

Knowing our good fight is about to end by our own accord,

Honda feet pushing the peddles to the floor, we can’t sit idle anymore and wait for the suicidal hotline to be free

Busy signals on everyone MUST mean no one cares about me

 So we flee crime scenes and into death pits

Don’t try to catch us once we fall


Late registration only applies for college

We ain’t teachers or classes

We classed out citizens

Children who are on the ass out side of buddy system

Bullies stealing our innocence and purchasing lunch with our smile-tickets

So we hide in closets until swinging bodies make scratching sounds on walls

Mama finds us heartbroken and stiff

Ain’t too many strong people on this side

We deviate from the program long enough to close the book

Fuck chapters

We done writing

Done writhing

Done trying and crying in steam rooms where no one can feel our pain

 So when this bullet hits thy temple, know it was not an act done in vain

Rather it was a sane performance of wanting to get back at people

Of needing to be placed in the steeple a final time, no chance for anyone to unwind and take back their personal neglect….

DON’T TOUCH THIS ROPE AROUND MY NECK unless you are cutting me down…


People laugh at us


We the suicidal

A long white bus with devil horns, no longer caring whether up or down is our final destination

All we know is this place of desensitization is not full of enough green pastures to tame us therefore we MUST be beasts….

Done trying to convince ourselves that we belong here

Our lives were formed from the blooper reel that one time our parents had neglectful sex


Whats next but to buried….

You thought we were joking when we said the pain is unbearable…

Oh that’s right….

 Black people don’t commit suicide, they just seek attention…


That’s what we hear

So where were you

When the gun blast went off……

Eating at the dinner table????

Putting your children to sleep….praying over their christened bodies that they would dream of candy rain and wonderland wishes, while dishes crash cause sliced wrists can’t hold the towel anymore……


Where were you

when broken bodies touched floors in search of peace

Self eviction from life

This is what WE call going under the knife!!!

We live to die

And we are dying to live because dying is the easiest thing we learned to do


Where were you

When the pills went down esophagus’ that would have rather been pushing lonely water thru to our bellies


Too many thoughts of rigor mortis in dark rooms that are tinted with painted sunshine make us think this is the best choice we will ever make….

Nothing is bright enough anymore…

.life was a complete mistake…

We crash into death like a collision course runway walk

Call us road kill models

We are conduits

Who will you believe

What you wish were true

or your lying eyes



The next time you hear

Black people don’t commit suicide

Just ask the dead body what time it fell and see wont you fail to reap a response

We were reaper keepers


Making hardcore decisions that can’t be undone

The unthinkable is right in front of your house

Reaching out by word of mouth but saying so little in front of faces

Watch for the signs


We are dying at young ages by the dozens

Meeting familiar faces and kissing older cousins who have driven the same route

Stop trying to figure us out and help us get in!!!!!

Unless you prefer when our spirits beg the answer to the question of where have YOU been??/


What were YOU doing when the bullet blacked out the future?

Where were you off to when the pills coagulated into a poison inside stomach muscles

We swallow milk to keep from vomiting ourselves back to life

Back to inhale, exhale, [heartbeat un retired]

We got instructions so it won’t backfire

Knife slices wrist

Hand wraps noose

Fingers clench triggers

Throat pushes pills

Golden gates can be jumped beyond…





 as the blood cradles our backs

Then it goes white







fade to black ….people don’t commit suicide..


the ride is over.

Where were you.

Before now?


The Purge

"...............I try to gain control by displacing my device….

But its only in the other room….

….i leave the phone in my pocket cause I know its not ringing

Coat pocket that is….

But I want it

I leave the coat on the couch cause I’m chilling in the house

But I need my phone…..

I write a poem,
warm up by standing on the vent,
smoke a blunt,
walk the dogs
call a couple of my friends

When it all ends-

-I want to call him

Text him

Ask him how long will this foolish dance of lets not love each other continue

But I should I woman up

Allow the over to be done

Give up  the ghost and the future, the possibility

If it was meant to be, it wouldn’t be so hard

Would it ?

I wanna call him

Talk for a short time, maybe say I just called to say hi,

I wonder if I could just call to say ….hi ?

I wanna text him

Three dots and nothing else just to see if he will react

I would what his reaction would be, but what if there isn’t one, what if this would be a shot in the dark interrupted by an ignore signal...

I wonder if he wondering if I’m wondering what he’s wondering

I wanna call him ................"


Face Crack

The first time we ever got a chance to be alone we knew,
That it was wrong to do,
I guess that's why I was drawn to you,
The 2nd time leads to the 3rd, the 5th, the 7th time,
I feel so alive, it won't last but it's alright,
Fleeting joy and fading ecstasy, here it goes again, oh,
Sneaking fruit from the forbidden tree, sweet taste of sin,

And I'm doing it again;
Yes, I'm doing it again,
Oh, I'm doing it again,
I said it would end but here it goes again.

~John Legend.



Mr Dismissed: For the Queen that Requested It (thank U)

Mr. Dismissed.
My friend says he loves me
But he don’t
Says he misses me
But he doesn’t
Says he was trying
He wasn’t
He lying
He loves me like grim reaper shadows for the dying
He loves me like Snoop Dog and hoes
And then like Ludacris and area codes
And then again like snakes and toads until I’m frozen into a glacier of confusion
Don’t know how to take him
Or what to make of him
Or what to say to him when his fingertips so graciously leaves prints on the i-m-i-s-s-y-o-u keys
Boy please
Your love  for me is the equivalent of a winter frost
And a summer rose…our fate is like a refundable security deposit minus the dirty carpet
..and the walls that need new paint
And the broken dishwasher
And the stained steel on the kitchen sink
Whats left isn’t worth cashing in
You bouncing love checks boo
Loving me like broken necks that heal inside of caskets
Buried, dirt covered and head s toned…
We might be grown but our friendship was still in the developmental stages…we should have soared with sky limits
But he stunted our growth with 12 guages of bullshit covered up with scented oil “I wish you were here” text messages…
Cant understand why I don’t enjoy being a recipient of his mentally challenged and dysfunctional way of saying I’m Sorry…
He speaks in foreign languages when he’s not making jokes, although it’s not until he has a serious moment that I feel compelled to laugh
Like when he says he misses me
And I wish we didn’t turn into this
Cause this is it
Cue Michael Jackson, this nigga is moonwalking across my back with sandpaper penny loafers but –
-at least he’s smiling
Sleeping with the enemy but –
-at least he’s getting laid
And I like to see my people
Especially the ones that love me
And miss me
Like he
My friend
Who claims to love me and careful consideration, I believe he may, but our idea of what it takes to make a friendship build
Or collapse and break don’t align and that’s fine by me
But I for one no longer wanna be down in fraggle rock, bouncing off walls with him…
Running Olympic tracks until I’m too dizzy to see straight
Or to see how crooked he is..
We devolved from a circle to a dangling line
Which is why he’s so  good at lying
And I’m letting go of my grip
Suicide feels better than this merry go round of addict behavior
I’m quacking cold turkey
He loves me like…..like I love beef jerky
And I hate beef jerky
It stinks
When I find it between my teeth, I spit it out !!!
It has too many unchewables
Just like his paint splotched, spackle crusted love
And he swears he misses me
But his emotions are MISplaced
And MISarticulated
Our closeness was a bit of a MIStake
We are MIScellaneously, MIScarried like MISfired sperm
Instead of missing me
He should have been trying to miss the spot
Now X marks his forehead and I fully expect him to exhibit extreme behavior for my acceptance but –
I never really did learn to walk backwards
Or forward blindfolded
Eventually you’ll fall
And when you do
You take your shades off
The roses on my glasses wilted months ago
He says I’m his friend and he’s right
I’m HIS friend
But that doesn’t instantly make him mine
And he says he was trying but I think he’s lying
At the expense of my feelings
Looks like there’s a ceiling up there after all
My friend says he loves me
And misses me
And part of me believes it
But he only misses silent Susie
The quiet mouse who doubts herself just enough to stay silent when stuff stops adding up but shit stinks no matter who’s ass it comes from
And I might be soft but I aint a roll of Charmin
So his charming smile woo’s me only enough to show him the common respect I’d offer a stranger
Somebody better throw him a life saver
Cause he’s poked a lot of holes in that waterbed he made
And now he’s in danger

Of drowning. 

#Copyrighted 2010



I've missed you so much, I can feel the hollowness within my heart. Sounds all poetic and writer-ish but its not....its the truth. I just sat, staring a box of CocaCola's for the last ten minutes

...or what seemed like 30 mins....

thinking of you and feeling this ......this.....
missing part ....

I gave you, me......and you didn't want her.
And the rejection is hurtful but ......the long way to it is what has stifled me.  I don't want no one to see me the way I am ...I don't want to explain all the other things on my mind, including you dancing on my pain. To see you, posting and lol'ing, commenting and tagging......

.....and not for the slightest second, thinking of me, is killing me. Its not you tho.  Its all me. I killed myself loving you.

So excuse me while I lay in this casket, resting rather unpeacefully.
I'll be back when the resurrection says I may return. Right now, i'm emotionally dead. Of all the hurt and all the things going on, all I want is to curl up next to you and feel you breathe.....ironically, you don't even care if i'm breathing at all.

Caskets n shit.

Loving you was the day I killed myself so excuse this casket crawl as I roll over and change post mortem positions.
... my resurrection will release you in ways you never knew I was holding you.


Brown vs Bored of Edu.: A Review by jY


The following is a review on the recent chapbook release “Brown vs. Bored of Education”, by Christopher K.P. Brown of Philadelphia, PA. It is a collection of 16 poems written over the last two years and mostly, if not all, personal in some way. Chapter one or 8:15am (Beginning of the school day)’ opens up with “Saturday, July 13 (or Jean Grae 1 of 4)”; a brief Inception-style piece that tells two stories in one.

“I wanted

to hear your voice that night….


to call you

And care about you

And not be a Black man on that night”

Page one goes on to be a short glimpse of a hopeful love with the potential to serve as a safe place. But upon turning the page Brown reveals that which he seeks love’s shelter from:

“wanted to not discuss the trial

Wanted to not discuss color

Or race in America

The 911 tape…”

The page fills with a broken sense of pride in humanity as the Trayvon Martin verdict becomes the second muse. The two subjects intertwine only briefly on the same pages, each holding their own melancholy separately. Still the combining contrasts tell a tale of love and anger, rage and need, fear and separation. The structure of the piece personifies its movement as it starts the reader on the right side of the page with safety net Jean Grae and ends on the left with the heartbreak of the trial outcome. We’re off to a great first period! The rest of this chapter plays host to several matters and concerns of African American men, of which Brown uses personal accounts and recollections to drive home his poetic points. From the catalysts that lead to incarceration to the often silenced topic of suicide and African Americans men, Christopher does a great job of stretching his pen wings. He fine tunes the art of recreation of situations, emotions and stories. One of my particular favorites, “Death vs Destiny”, reminds me of a Jay-Z line from the song “Murder of Excellence” of which he says,

“...and they say by 21 I supposed to die

So I’m out here celebrating my post demise”

In Brown’s poem, he explores the idea of not expecting to live beyond the age of 21 and as a result, not being prepared for life ala ‘post demise’. The subject alone is mentally engaging but the story he tells of outliving his expected fate presents the type of emotional vulnerability that I would like to see more black male writers embrace. It begs the question of what are we preparing our sons for? Life, or death at a young age? Christopher gives examples of artists, leaders and even close friends/peers who all meet an early demise to help drive home the point of how this mentality develops. “….this feels like overtime. Out here scuffling cause I was caught off guard by my true destiny. Feeling like somebody lied” Overall, this chapter does a great job of opening the door to dialogue about the truths African American men mentally face on any given day.

11:45AM (Lunch Period & Recess)

Brown dives head first into deeper emotional waters in this section. It begins with a poem called “Underground King Freestyle”, which flows through two pages like a hip hop song. It wouldn’t be strange to hear a beat and bob your head while silently reading to yourself. I imagine if this piece was performed, one could close their eyes and listen to the passion bounce from each line spoken. Moving thru the rest of the ‘Lunch & Recess’ section, with exception of a heartfelt poem about his 92 year old grandmother, the remaining poems round out the Jean Grae series. There are four pieces in total, the first having started off the book (Sat. July 13th) This chapter plays home to the final three; two short one page poems and the final two paged piece. This series is amazing. It pulls from the love story that initially started on the right side of the first page in the book. You get a sense of a violent love, but not physically. It’s an emotional violence. A relationship rose war; a notion to continue but a need to stop. His imagery in Poem #2 (We Love It Here) is vivid enough for you to see this couple writing and holding pens together in the rain. In poem #3 (Crashing), you feel the sting of more than a rough patch hit. Finally there is, #4 “Beautiful Chaos”, which is part summary, part reflective. It is exactly what its called: Beautiful Chaos. Poem #4 begs the reader to ask themselves the very questions Chris is asking Jean Grae.

“If your beauty ever tried to pimp slap your ugliness

Would you let it?

Or would you stop it

Say this is how things are supposed to be

Would you ever make an exchange

Trade your chaos in for peace…”

This poem and especially this entire last stanza, spoke so loud to me that it felt as though Brown rose from between the black print and the white page and dared me to make myself Jean Grae for the moment. Not HIS Jean Grae, but the Jean Grae within me. This short love series holds mystery, heartache, truth and that long, ill walk thru acceptance’s palace that we’ve all experienced by age 30. This final installment of Jean Grae (1-4) and subsequently the last poem of 11:15AM, is a poetic dare. I dare you to read it and ask yourself, is completely beautiful something you’re brave enough to be?”

12:30 (Second Half of School Day)

“Lineage”, is the introductory poem into the final chapter of Brown vs. The Bored of Education. The poem itself is an absolute dedication to those who have mile marked both the literary and performance roads for rest of us spoken word artists/poets/writers. Names such as Chuck D. and Sean Carter, Saul Williams and Gwendolyn Brooks as well as Goodie Mob, Phyliss Wheatley and Countee Cullen are immortalized in a semi-circular structured poem that reads like old Harlem.

“this is that





Between Chuck D.

And Nikki G.


And Bambaataa


And Sean Carter

Poetry be the mother

Hip hop be the father

Spoken word, the child

And we be the authors.”

The remainder of the chapter seems motivated by the internal war writers and artists sometimes find themselves in battle with, as evidenced in the poem “Poet vs SELF. It’s a war that doesn’t start or end solely on the stage; rather it begins at conception and resonates throughout our entire lives. There are several final perspectives explored, including the notion of womanhood and respect as found in heartbreaking Sweetest Taboo (pt 2.).

“her self worth

And her sexuality never speak to each other”

In the poem “Strange Game”, Brown highlights the recurring problem of poets being almost expected to work for free. Having done my own share of performing, this piece hit home. In it he states:

“…we get on stage night in, night out

Saving the world for free

Often “paying” at the door

Just so we can get up here to entertain

I mean, imagine if a stripper brought her own ones to the stage

And when that music comes on

She was the one busy making it rain…”

I think any poet who reads this will appreciate it being highlighted as a problem. The final poem of the book is “Higher Power”. It is his final naked walk across the pages of truth. As with EVERY poem before, it exposes Chris. He puts his weaknesses on in the same block of words as his strengths, while praising God and admitting that he needs to do better.

tryna eat healthier

Procrastinate less

Drink more water

Live longer so my grandchildren have a real life example

Of what it means to live in tune with God

Morally conscious

Spiritually conscious in a world where they say

A higher power don’t matter no more”

Brown vs. The Bored of Education is a solid literary effort from Christopher Brown. I directly connected to about 90% of it. We share a lot of the same thoughts and questions regarding art and life, so relating with his work seemed easy. The chosen poems do a great job at character sketching the mind of Brown. In his final entry, an essay entitled “Brown vs Bored of Education”, he candidly speaks about his history with writing, poetry and music, all of which correlate to the poems shared in the book. He also speaks on what he believes to be his responsibilities to the poetry community as well as the responsibilities of his peers. I really enjoyed this material and have no doubts that I will read it again, as I already have read several poems quite a few times. I think the courts rule in favor of Brown.


***To find out more about Christopher K.P. Brown and to purchase your copy of his book “Brown vs. Bored of Education” visit:




Arms Wide Open, Words Wide Shut.

I don’t know what to say….
Or what I want to say yet……idk how to pinpoint what exactly I feel, but I know I am feeling A LOT of different things.  I know I have posted a lot of stats regarding the ending of Different Peace of Mind but ….whatever is on my heart

To actually say
Has not made it into word form yet

All I can think to do is quote a song….for when words fail she who only knows words, that’s when I turn to music.  Because it never fails me.So for now, until i find the words, please take these words.....from one of my favorite songs ever. 

i SINCERELY with all of me, 
all that i am
and every part of my soul, being and existence,

am beyond grateful for this last 16 months.  I love you.  



Flight of No F*cks

<  Ex Factor 3

...have given me the token of WORTHLESS for the last time
no more staying on this ship
Fucking around with this shit
I’m jumping
I’d much rather off myself than to let you continue to douse me with hypothermia
Nigga fuck yo’ match
My keys were just snatched,
By me,

No life jacket necessary,
No defibrillator,
No rounds of Eppi for the heart you have evacuated the blood supply from,
You fema !!
No more roof waving,
Signs that state I am in need of saving,
No more avoiding the swirl of going down the drain,
Pummeling around the rabbit hole,
Fumbling for my loss of control,
Forgetting how to resurface
[No more] oxygen depletion
Water in lungs
Hanging onto your words until I become a swinging pendulum of lifelessness
No more of this
Runny and lactose intolerant
1.5%  skim,
Egg beater,
Vegan style meat eating,
Dumpster diving,
Turtle neck jiving,
Snake biting,
High priced generic,
Consignment store smelling like a clearance rack take back
Under arm sweating,
great balls of fire,
Blue torn sueded shoes
Misused, stale brewed up green tea
Universal lackluster soldier shooting hollowtip pointed love from you to me
Yeah I’m [fuckin] done here,
no more value village,
binge goodwill shopping,
salvation army free shipping,
back alley handling,

-or mishandling

five dollar dvd bin, no movies i want in this muthaf*cka
half off dollar tree,

section wait ----
foldable food stamps? !!!
great value,
boxed up,
hamburger helper tasting,
time wasting,
bullshit chasing,
complete fallacy of the truth,
no tax,
no retractor
Charitable donation, write off
of love....
From you.
I will be damned if this is an “I Do” vow of silence
Sitting back while you pillage
Thru my emotions
No sifting
And all the lumps are coming thru
can’t get the stink out of the shit
manure might grow flowers but have you ever notice its only from animals ?
no more human waste from you….
No more packages of you that lack warning labels….
Yuck faces and barf bags in my purse….
No more cane carrying,
Shotgun blasts to the back,
Plastic sack with a hole in the bottom,
Trash falling out,
Foot dragging in the sand,
Sand castles blowing down,
Down hill,
Need to be healed from,
Type of hurtful mistreatment ….
worthless love tokens of faux affection and pushed erections that increase my blinding dopamine injections
FUCK YOU !!!!!!!
(and fuck the part of you that would even dare )

……and with that said,
I will always love you….
Take care.

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