Miseducation Of her

It was autumn where brown sugar filled eyes
orchestrated my speech pattern. The pull of
attention mastered at the door revolved around
her world and from that moment my lips became hers. Intoxicated with everything that is her, my reality instantly revamped exposing addictions to this tavern. I sketch thoughts on this ceiling so when I’m invited to
consciousness she can close the distance between us. Silohuette of perfection mirroring a flawed rose presence commanding fragrance forces a spell to invest in what’s already there. Her light is seen by the public eye but very few
grasp her by the stem afraid of the possibility that her thorns manufacture kings. I grab her by the roots breathing her pain into my veins yearning to grow with her. Eyes in the clouds I miss the significance of living.











She is Soul Food


The canvas of a masterpiece aching my hands to translate creativity. Diego Rivera and Shakespeare infused persona as I lay these words to paper. This is a sista so it’s more of a Langston Hughes via Nina Simone collaboration on a scale where your womb is pregnant with culture. Backbone of the original man, Queen of ten thousands moons with a brain stem operating at different frequencies. The Muse of many wars between Great Kings and life. World war III where two sides collide like apartheid to light. Applied philosophy that you are soul food living at a higher vibration waking up is the only affordable means to survive. We had to depart from woman in order to live but Tamarah is defined as starter of life. The only method of discovering consciousness let alone himself was finding you.


I got brothas laced up in blue chucks that would stomp your face through the floor. When I first understood the philosophical concept of my breath I was moved, Shoes hanging from telephone poles on Crenshaw and Slauson intimately penetrating a recurring thought. Malcolm killed for freedom, King died for peace I respect no man chasing reparation in the blood of his sibling,100 days 100 nights in the hood genocide already been in season. Closets looking skeletal as the bodies in our backyard levitate over extending the budget on black dresses for our mothers. Siblings having target practice with each other over street signs and landmarks where names have no clue of lease. Crips and Bloods making noise on the pavement like Tutsi and Hutu’s in the prime of The Rwandan Genocide orchestrated by ignorance and privilege. Bastards of the Party lost sight of Pops intentions did i mention Apartheid within oneself dismisses the execution from the vision. This game is so hypocritical that they broadcast Africans killing Africans but not the hands that pushed two brothers to clash. Foreign steel aimed at your brothas head with finger tips that never integrated a passport. The Apartheid is real out here but it’s reverse, indirect division manifestation of Lynch letters is a mother.

Until we operate in unity & move strategically we will always have a hand in police brutality. It’s been a massacre for over 300 years investing in body bags subconsciously condoning self hate removing defense systems. Closed fist signifying power and programs for the community evolved to Hands up don’t shoot and Food stamps. They say black people hold each other down like crabs in a barrel while neglecting its nature and who built this prison. THEY NEVER LOVED US!  categorize the black community for being lazy while easily losing memory Ancestors who came to a different planet to kidnap Africans to escape labor. Built this against our favor, Black lives Matter is just pride of my culture I’m no hater I’m just a renaissance man tuck in a blazer.. I just knows what’s relevant Economic development, peace, and love is what I bring to table. We all could eat if we weren’t so consumed with Skin tone, brands and colors bitter attitudes towards brothas. Strategically minded Leimiert Park could easily birth into black wall street if Robin hood stop robbing the poor and invest into our soil. Targeted by pigs whose fear became the mask he wear over his badge. It becomes easy for a minority to trap a Lion when the Lion has no idea that he’s a Lion. One day that Lion will wake up one morning deprived of choice to be a Lion and massacre in everything in sight. He’s a Christian advocating violence I knew they were hypocrites no I’m a man who believes in protecting his family but if you come near my children you will appreciate death in a hasty fashion. Lioness doesn’t play about theirs trust me wifey a killer too. Play with me

The sistas can’t proclaim to have the Denise Huxtable persona with an instagram full of thirst traps, while in arrogance you secure your place in the majority. We were made for so much more than puppets with scripted freedom on VH1. Your first breath was initiation into a sorority of royalty. Know who you are, don’t let society sell you a picture of yourself. If they can sell you to you your life becomes meaningless. You are made of brown sugar, coco, honey gold and the strength of ten thousands moons you move mountains in your wake. Every man had part from you in order to gravitate towards life so we aren’t in a position to exploit such a being. Carried civilizations on your back for generations  When we align ourselves with what God has designed for us to be our house will fall in order. They fear our reconciliation!  I don’t care what history teachers and cable TV are teaching you You are the revolution. 


If your Lucky she’ll do you Justice

It’s cliche to say you mean the world when if I have truly gained sight I should be able to articulate how you are the whole dam galaxy. Infiltrate telicopes manipulate horoscopes, dictionaries use you as propaganda to what Americans define as dope. Inhale lines of your essence ingest a high that places my soul at a different frequency. A preview of heaven crafted by perfect hands.Oshun’s heart or Athena’s strategic brain matter hmm? none of them comes close to the intimate prefaces of who you are. Fragments of you splashed across the sky to highlight your deity. It’s a turn up in heaven when God took His time to marvel at a perfect creation like a painter’s scream at creativity. Your breath wows Him moving His lips to give angels a constant reminder “Thats me”. Is that a frown on your face woman? Don’t make my bones gravitate to flesh manifesting my being through these words cause now I have to kiss your forehead securing a recurring refuge that I am not going anywhere. La always been the muse

– Joseph Shakur (Her favorite student)

Have you lost sight

Have you lost sight of the man you address in such impulsive arrogance. Pardon my bold tongue its first nature to shift dialect and translations simultaneously as a fool is birthed through loose lips. Woman I will have you feeling penetrated while depriving you of physical touch. Sensory’s fascination with mountain tops places you in a trance permitted facilitated in soliloquy. Strip your thoughts of morality while you paint an image of the languages my tongue translates as it slithers from dialect to diction. A brotha seems to have to a PHd in the Art of intimacy the way his eyes studied her temple and majored in foreplay excelling in every inch. Gradually approaching the prefaces of her Yoni Inserting philosophy skin deep that it produces theme music to my power. Echoes of my name beats off the wall engineering the greatest sound, exposing my identity in repetition as nails claw into a barbaric institution. She yelled deeper emancipating her ego through the velocity of poetry. Wrapped her hands around my neck like a noose as the knowledge I’m kicking poured rooted ideals into her depths penetrating her core. They say the state of imagination wasn’t a noun but the articulation of her tabernacle feels me in her soul. Legs raised to the stars with a front row seat to how the world was created. Woman have you lost sight? This is intimacy, I call it making love without the usage of the physical segment of your senses, I only touched your soul.

She Spoke Words

laspeaksShe Spoke Words

 She spoke piercing words that compelled my legs to disobey my direct order which inspired so many institutions of revolutions. Crazy right? A black woman indirectly telling me to sit down in such an aggressive manner so now you can only imagine the conflict stirring from my body,making a conscious decision to object law and override my verdict to move. When she spoke I listened, Analogies and philosophies so potent like her words couldn’t connote the state of surface. My chest moved to her rhythm “did we Forget?” My heart chased after her with the excitement of liberty and rooted purpose. She spoke words that manipulated the statuesque of logic and fragmentary perceptions. Assata Shakur, Nina Simone? I’m starting to see the connection. She imprinted on me in such a manner that my thoughts became her slave subject to her Lioness prowl. Passion fell from her lips, while I was staring Revolution dead in her eyes and the scary part about The Lioness who spoke words was that she roared back in the fashion of black empowerment, philosophy, and passion. My soul began to have a rooted yearning for her depriving The son of East Africa choice to brand her name across his sanctuary. La Speaks Volume! hashtag I like me some you shorty. She Spoke words

I had a show about a week ago and stared into the audience while the radar in my chest searched for you. Logic eloquently preached that there’s no way she’d be here but I found comfort in my subconscious catering to the thought that she could walk through the door at anytime. I held on to that like it was my last piece of humanity before a great leap into the presence of God. I looked left and right in dire hope that my eyes were granted the luxury of your presence. I saw a woman who resembled you in a multitude of ways and it moved my soul. I was moved just to wake up & it wasn’t even you, there goes my eyes infidelity with reality and oh how unfaithful they were to me. The moral of that story was my imagination makes love to you in a legion on contexts and analogies. You move me and if I can paint a mural to show you how serious I am The world would have to look up to you from the pedal I have put you on. I’ll remembered for reminding the world what love looks like.

She spoke words

Too Passionate


The craziest thing happened to me I was told I’m too passionate crazy right?. I’m too passionate like it’s blasphemy for my heart to beat at this frequency. It’s level to this, A crowning creation crafted in God’s image I’m beginning to see why you’re having a hard time trying to fathom this breathing canvas. A young Darius Love-Hall, the black Dan Humphrey how can you blame me, I left the womb wrapped in glory. Presented to my mother like the first round draft pick breathing manifestation of the heart of God cloaked in mortal substance. I’ve never been introduced to a pinnacle, limitations is a foreign casualty I haven’ begun to scratch the surface. I’m outlandish morality on a pedal stool fenced in by cultures sole stamped on thievery and idolatry. Overdosed on pariah, a refugee rebellion against acceptance. Everyone wants to equate themselves to a God until it’s time to be a martyr shoes that becomes a brand that nobody invest in but you stamp me as a character in your subconscious novel as too passionate.

I’m too passionate maybe I can see that  my eyes have indulged on more than one displays of the notebook. Or just maybe I memorized too many lines than status quo”I want all of you forever, you and me” subconsciously I think I’m Darius Lovehall smooth poetic vibration hopeless romantic over indulging in spontaneous antics. A great love story seems elusive until you hear music a place where you can’t understand the rhythm but you love hearing music with that one person so you recite lyrics in repetition til you find your rhythm building chemistry at heights Robert Boyle lost sight of interpretation. Rhythm rhythm so potent Alvin Einstein’s ashes still calculating the Algorithm. I live in split screen reality I’m with you physically, but mentally I’m in 1930’s Harlem where black culture was authentic and potent. My vivid imagination provides a fantasy sub reality that defies present conscience. anorexic logic bares no substance common sense subject to nuisance. Poetry moves my soul every stargazing trance subject my eyes to illicit rhymes, metaphors and analogies spread across the sky like the world is my canvas. Surgically cut open my chest so the world can see who God is and a crown of thorns appeared on every sky scraper in the nation. Murals nothing but sketches of my thoughts. I’m not here to spread apologies for unapologetically breathing truth into your ear like whistles of the wind. I’m too passionate

I’m way too passionate. Martyrs are the offsprings of such things. Crucifying myself religiously emulation of sanctification as a daily chore. Drunk in love with the greatest Pioneer of sacrifice and omnipotence. Love is sacrificial passion drives thorns to be worn in a fashion of a crown. Seated in luxury while Jesus flawed body hazed for Glory, cries that yelled reconciliation. Beyond depths of recognition it was no denying His presence soul driven by reverence. I’m way too passionate murals around globe minister through a multitude of canvasses with me on the highest sky scraper in Harlem yelling I love you Yahweh, oh excuse me Jehovah, The Great I Am, El Shaddai you know I aint got no type. One mic One God compels convicted to be wrongfully convicted incarcerated for piercing hearts like darts. Passion became Hi def when the cross magnetize all men to that God just is. In a decaying society it is that light that coexist in within us that drives all men to the magnitude of His glory. I’m TURNT !