Untitled


This poem is a poem with no title of its own,
to unknown to this man is the poem and her throne.
This poem is bound by no shapes or lines,
just metaphorical speech and impeccable rhymes.
The words you see here are invisible ink,
for you see the letters but the message you must think.
For the words with no meaning make no words at all,
like nights with no moon when the sun waits to fall.
And here we stand, brothered arms in band,
the times of sand are no match for our plans.
And we stand and we stand until we understand,
that it's not about the power just the brotherhood of man.
And we sit and we wait until we sleep the day away,
stuck in our own dreams because the world had nothing to say.
We tried to warn them all what would happen on this day,
but I guess the mic was off when I had my things to say.
Let's stand our fronts to let them see our faces.
Stop labeling my people because I won't tolerate racists.
You see all the paces I've taken to take one step,
yeah I bet you have, that's why you haven't taken yours yet.
I leap into the circle with my own two feet and now
you're on the outside staring back at me.
I'm screaming, "This poem is still a poem with no title at the top!"
And when they catch me they'll study me and create my clone
then he will write a poem with a title of its own.

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