Lost Melodies!! (My occasion Achilles Heel)

Ive recently ran into one of my pet peeves. I call them lost melodies. Lost Melodies is a tantalizing blank uprising that makes me rant about my colliding world. It forces me to stomp in the night to the plight that divides me from the whims that I write, making my skin kinda tight. I feel like a parent who doesnt recognize their beloved child. Beguiled to look at them with a face of denial. All because I see the piece yet cant remember how it reads. My dear these are the lost melodies. If only my brain could retain their frame... :/ ... But then comes conception again once my eyes link up with my College Rule Lined girlfriend. I pray Im not as terrible a father this time around while I wait for my abandoned children to be found.

Does this happen to anyone else? You write something that must be read a specific way and some time afterwards you forget how it goes?

Have you ever noticed...

…so many up and coming MC’s (if it’s still appropriate to call rappers MCs) are self-proclaiming themselves to be Hip-Hop’s savior? It’s like an endless loophole of rap music Jesuses performing counterfeit miracles as the previous one-hit wonder withers away like a wilted flower. C’mon man, this is making “saviors” in general look bad. Try other occupations. There’s hiring for just being a dope MC. See how that works out.

Graffiti D.C.: Escribe Adventurism at its poetic finest!!

I can hear the people shouting…

A MOVEMENT IS STARTING…

Like the strategist’s techniques and with chess pieces…

A MOVEMENT IS STARTING…

Like the activist’s shouts of peace from his direct thesis…

A MOVEMENT IS STARTING…

Like the evangelist’s leaving their seats, telling you to select Jesus…

A MOVEMENT IS STARTING…

And because the youth’s have put victory in their reach with the correct sequence…

…A MOVEMENT HAS BEGUN



Those are but a few words that help summarize the phenomenon being taken place in the Washington D.C. area. A movement of passionate slam poetry from the depths of the soul, composed of the rawest talents on the entire scene is what Graffiti D.C. is. When each poet graces the stage, they let you know that this movement is going to take the world by storm. After years of writing and performing individually, building the impact of the words that danced from the paper to the ears of the fans that anticipate to hear a peice, Graffiti D.C. members have made it their slogan that "Slam Poetry is The Art of War." Which means, they all have something to say, and they are more than willing to fight in order to say what needs to be said.

Here are some of the members that make Graffiti D.C. so profound in its message...

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This is all but a small taste of the batter being constantly whipped up as these poets share to you their life, thoughts, imaginations, beliefs and much more in such a blend of unique styles that they've poured the fiber of their being to you like they were gourmet chefs serving up a plate of food for thought to keep you filled for the rest of the night. They're going for more than just a showcase but an establishment as they are here to stay.

Graffiti D.C. asks for fellow poets to take up their pens and join in "The Art of War", a Slam Competition taking place every 3rd Wednesdays starting July 21, 2010. The winner of each slam (totaling 8 in all) goes to compete for the prize of $1,000.00. It'll be cutthroat of words that slice like daggers, sharpened by the determination of each contestant. Be sure not to miss in this powerful movement.

Intentional Daggers (Maniacal is Comical)

Intentional Daggers
By: Uriah "The CivILLian" Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

Roses held a reddish embellishment upon rosy cheeks because my mold of think was to smother thee with a number of cliche heartbroken lines.

Such as, "I can't live without you
nor would I want to even when it seems I have to.
I have to take a shovel and dig past my chest til I find my heart
but it isn't there.
For I took the scissors and knives and carved it out just to give them to you."

I figure saying that with a hint of subtle softness would promote a gesture that would let you put down that social blockade.
But I almost feel like a jester. Just a cunning jester for knowing that sweet talk is what got you into the status you're at in the first place, yet still I persist.

"You are the harvester that I grow my garden for with diligent working hands, that would go and prepare a place for you to nest in."

And what's worse is, that the words and letters go run-o-the-mill the more I speak to you, knowing my cards are being played and I'm running out of maneuvers.
And we'll once again trickle down to that inevitable break-up where I'm labelled a jerk for taking your everything and smashing it with no remorse... then subtly moving on.

All the while, my skills in buttery linguistics to butter up a mistress grows as the next girl listens to my tales of us, and how I reminisce it.

"...And the whisper in her lips
Became the shouting cry in my ink pen.
Illustrating her heart as her tears
Carved scars...

...Holding on to that small piece of her..."

To which another pretty lady is swooned to my addiction that brought them to doom.

An old piece I always end up posting each year

I was looking around and I happened to notice how the world acts and reacts to a day like this. It inspired me on what we like to label ourselves. Slaves or free.

Slaves to Independence
By: Uriah "The CivILLian" Walters

How many of us are slaves to independence?
Searching for a freedom that was yet to reach existence?
As we call for free spaces, the bell continuously rattles
With us awaiting to be released from our shackles
Here we are, leaving the cell block gate
Then we wonder of where we are in life and begin into debate
Sending ourselves back to where we started
Us as a people and slavery have not departed
Going off to make many, many decisions
Not one thought has been able to break us from tradition
We pick a nerve to call the assorted people ignorant
Then we try to say we have the pinnacle of intelligence
How is this so when we continue to curse our own brother?
With respect for the power; we lack it for our mother
Traditionalized by the same old pains
With no plans for the future or a will to change
The people of diversity
Are of different culture, but they resemble a family
Yet we still fight negligence
As slaves who don’t appreciate independence