11/29/09 (Persona of Ink…early)

I spent two years in the pen
Last time I seen the outside
She kissed you for usin’ me
Speed through my eulogy
I’ll serve my death sentence
But I’ll be resurrected
In the form of spoken word
If she doesn’t read the ink on the page
I’ll go from incarcerated in a pen
To reincarnated to when
You say what you think on a stage

Poems are evidence of a con artist
I steal attention away from other women
I’m a felt tip felon, they are just jealous
That you write for her when
They’ve been waiting months for a poem
But she has been waiting years for an apology
For the return of sentimental valuables
You burglarized from her heart
So when you release me to inkblots
She’ll read your words like Rorschach cards
And think YOU are crazy
And she’s right

You should have wrote me into existence
For the general population to see that you loved her
Rehabilitating me is no compensation
For keeping me locked in
Ballpoint Alcatraz and Atticas
You should have wrote of your solidarity
But you kept my fine print
In solitary confinement
Instead of sanskrit, a Shawshank redemption
Forced me to escape through the sewage pipe of a pen
You treated me like a character from Oz on HBO
1 to 0 is an odd ratio
And much more is gone than fellatio
Even if she hears your song on the radio
Apologies can’t always be
Prettied up with poetry
And there’s no need to bag on yourself
But when it comes down to The Wire
She’d probably rather I
Be personified
As Avon Barksdale

You still haven’t slept completely
In this hallway house of partially written poems
But even when the apologies are finished
You will pretend ink can redeem you
You will say it with a straight face permanent as tattoos
That she can turn to blue watercolor with one laugh
So whatever words you use me to write
They will never do her justice
But let me tell her at the very least
That behind the metaphors and similes
Grotesque imagery
What I record is always a true story