The End? = Snatched from J.S.

Wow. I haven't done this in a while.

A friend once told me that blogging is theraputic. I didn't really doubt her, but I doubted it counseling powers for me. I didn't really see how typing something in a consistant rough draft for the world to see could help me out. Then I felt like I didn't deserve to be a Psychology major.

I mean, come on. I should've understood that before she even said it.

But like Mario said, "Here I Go Again".

It's the end of my junior year. God continues to read me riddles and haikus in the form of women, academics and family. I would've thought, a year ago, that I could handle it, that I knew enough to NOT make a bad decision. God proves to me again that I never know enough. 

The roster:
Georgia Peach-y? - I think its done for real now. I've been dancing the same tango with this girl for two years, since her freshman year, my sophomore year. At first, the attraction was solely physical. As time went on, and we spent more time with each other, I think we elevated to a level past tolerable. She's a cool kid, with her own little quirks that showed me who she was. I genuinely liked her, our conversations, our late-movie walks, et cetera.
For a while, I hoped for a relationship between us. The problem was, I couldn't understand her to save my life. As a poet, analyzation is a way of life, but there will always be a woman to screw those thoughts up. The signals she threw me, while legitimate, still confused the crap out of me. Does she like me? Are we still friends? More than friends? Should I make a move? Non-stop questions.
One night, it became clear that we should keep it simple, and keep it on a friendship level. Yet, when I follow the protocol of "just friends" and pursue nothing more, she expected me to actually try harder. Didn't someone say something before about saying what you mean?
As of right now, I think she despises my existance. The lack of communication, or desire for, has both of our views of the other screwed up. She doesn't seem to be willing to talk to me. All I ever wanted was for her to be straight up and come direct to me. I just want(ed?) her to talk to me. Even if she hates me. Even if I'm just "another guy" to her. Even after we weren't trying to date each other, I still want(ed?) to be a friend.
Ah well. I miss her.

M. Jones - How in the world did she end up becoming one of my closest friends? I met this kid on the basis of a mutual friend. Subtract the mutual friend, and somehow we went together just fine.
In the beginning, I hoped for more than a friendship with her. Thankfully, I didn't try it/she didn't let me. And we still have a strong friendship. I care for her in so many ways, and I honestly try to be the best friend I know how to be. Her ear, her shoulder, her late-night-run-to-Walmart buddy, whatever. She doesn't still have to talk to me. But she's still here. As am I.
Point being? She's a cool kid. Cuz we rock out with our glocks out.

Love's Love - This girl. The longest source of confusion in my life. Without thinking, I say that she might've been one of the major factors of angst during my early teenage years. At the same time, I don't know if I'll love any other female as much as I love her.
I fell hard for her. I didn't know why. I still don't know why. But she's grown to be such a part of my life, I can't imagine not having her. Since knee-highs, we've been friends, with countless memories to boot. I loved her in ways that no 12-year-old should.
Alas, time walks in the door. Almost like a beacon of light, I saw that something had to change. We were both growing up, becoming different people, yet the same souls.
I love her. I will love her. For reasons that are no clearer to me now than they were at age 12. While I may not be head-over-heels in love with her any more, we've come too far to drop it. 

Stupidoodle - Oh wow. The magic and mysticism of Spting Break knows no boundaries. What started out as a simple evasion of boredom ended up being a very sensitive "like" affair.
I like her. I really like her. I like the way she feels in my arms. I like how I don't feel pressured to be something else around her. I like her corniness. I like her gay nicknames. I like how she looks in my eyes. I like how she says, "I like you".
I don't even know how it happened. Somewhere, I started saying to myself, "Man. This feels good."
My fear is that I'll fack it up. Like I usually do. I'll be graduating in a year. Will that year be enough? Will it be in vain? Is this even real? What if we're just in a hypersensualized state of infatuation? I hope not.
In any case, she's also my friend. I hope she sticks around.

Jedi.Wordsmith. - If you could type a smile without looking wack, then insert that here ___________________.
If I ever had a reason to thank Myspace, this is it. I thank God for her. There are many people that I get along with. There are a few people who I can righteously vibe with spiritually, vocationally and spiritually vocationally. She's one of them. In a world of Dipset admirers and Chicken Noodle Soup dancers, she's the one person who wholeheartedly despises them on the same level I do, if not more. It's not even just that. This woman is a writer. A WRITER. If you don't belive me, just check her myspace moniker. 
When we started talking to each other via Myspace last summer, I guess you can say that I was excited. Actually looking forward to the new semester. Just to meet her in person.
She proved to be a great friend. Always willing to listen and give unbiased advice. Nice, I thought to myself.
Imagine my surprise/joy/confusion/ecstacy when she ended up reiterating those same feelings towards me. Almost to the T. Except it was a P. (Get it? P for Poetry?)
And I was definately attracted to her. Physically and mentally.
(Un)fortunately, I said nothing. Yet we were still friends. United by the pen, stronger with time, I appreciated it.
Now? Questions. Not that she's grown more cryptic, but I have the feeling that there's a lot more behind her words. Me? Unsure how to read it. Do I automatically assume that behind her words are messages tainted with admiration? Common sense tells me no, but hope pushes me to look for more.
Either way, here's what I sound like approaching the finale: our love remains on paper until forgotten. If I'm right.

Project: COMS 201

(This was for a project in class. This concert does not exist. But I wonder what it would look like if it did exist...)

I don’t know.

I mean, I have nothing against this tour, nor the artists involved.

I love Maroon 5. Their new album is coming out in a few weeks, and from what I’ve heard on their MySpace page, it should be interesting. Their new single, “Makes Me Wonder” maintains the sound that all of their fans would definitely recognize, while wildly expressive. A difference is detected, but it takes nothing away from their previous sound.



My sister loves John Legend. Her entire room is like some kind of cheerful mausoleum, dedicated to this man.

Okay. That may be a bit of an exaggeration. But every time I pass her room, if she’s not talking on the phone, typing furiously on AIM©, then she is probably playing his newest album, “Once Again”. I can’t say too much about him, at least nothing negative. He sounds pretty decent. I've heard tidbits from the album, like his single "P.D.A." I imagined Stevie Wonder meeting Chico DeBarge.



Actually, he reminds me a lot of a male counterpart to Alicia Keys. Soulful and original, from what I know, he is a musician.

I’ve heard some things about this band called Bosc. Like the pear. Some late night on Myspace, I ended up listening to their song, “Will It Ever End?”. A few friends and I were talking about it. We joked about how the lyrics sounded like something a stalker might have written in his diary. And while we kidded about it, it was undeniable that there was an honesty that lead singer Brett Lesher was able to push forward with his voice. However sensitive this may sound, the music captivated me for all of 4 minutes. The track I was listening to was performed live, but I’m sure that being there for the real thing would be an experience to behold.

James Morrison is new. I actually did research on him.

When Myspace trapped me again, it wasn’t because of late night lurking. I saw his demo in a nearby music store. I didn’t really feel like shelling out the 2 bucks that they were asking for, but I did want to hear about this kid that they called “breath-taking” and “captivating”. Where else to search but Myspace?
His first single, “You Give Me Something”, held particular meaning for me. My girlfriend and I have been dating for three months. It’s nothing special for a couple to have a song that they call their own.



When I heard this song, I felt that I had stumbled upon a great find. I immediately sent the link to my girlfriend and awaited her response.
Long story short? We now have “our song”.

But none of that is why I have doubts about the Undiscovered Evolution tour. I have doubts about acceptance of the Undiscovered Evolution tour coming to Liberty University.

Liberty University boasts of a conservative background that is more extensive than T.D. Jakes’ Sunday Morning Service roster. Spearheaded by Moral Majority front-man Jerry Falwell, Liberty plays no games when it comes to issues of the spiritual persuasion. There are no blurred lines, no gray areas – strictly black and white at this university.

My question is simply this: Are we ready?

Are the students at Liberty University ready for something other than Steven Curtis Chapman concerts and talks of a dcTalk reunion? Are we strong enough in our faith to allow a clearly secular musical tour to come on this campus? None of the artists are lyrically explicit enough to tempt the loins of any high school student – but then again, today’s average high school student has already lost their audio virginity to much harsher sounds.

Once again, I reiterate my same question. Are we ready to step outside of the accursed Liberty Bubble for the sake of music?
I don’t know.

Wave Goodbye...

It's funny how things change. What's even funnier is how rapidly things change.

When I was in the fifth grade, there was one specific situation that stuck out to me, like the proverbial sore thumb. Although the exact details have grown blurry due to the winds of time, the main point of the story cannot be lost, like a Quentin Tarantino flick.

There was a group of kids talking in the back of the class, as is the scene in almost any Catholic grade school. Me, not being a member of this particular crowd was naturally attracted. As I got closer, I learned that they were talking about something that my ears had never heard of before.

Motion Lotion.

I personally thought that it was some of feminine product, made for those with on-the-go lifestyles. Still, I had to be sure. So I asked, "What's 'Motion Lotion'?"

They all looked at me with eyes of surprise, followed by laughter. After they finished splitting their sides, one girl explained to me what it was, and more importantly, what it was for.

Masturbation. A four syllabled word that was strictly taboo and what I thought everyone called 'naughty'. I was sadly mistaken. In fifth grade, my eyes opened and my innocence was hereby gone. The Sex Talk came a few years later, but that one day in 1996 was as close as I thought I would get to knowing about it.

Fast forward to this.

Innocence is gone. Erased. Children are no longer children. I wouldn't be surpised if a few years from now, a third grader taught a seminar on STD's.

What happened to the days of hopscotch and cooties? Freeze Tag and Hide and Seek?

What a world is this where ELEVEN YEAR OLD children are having sex in classrooms? And they're not only having sex, but they have the know-how to post look-outs. Because they're not just doing something innocent, like drawing smiley faces on the wall. They're not doing something juvenile, like playing Game Boy during a pop quiz.

America's children are having sex.

Our children are having sex.

Children are having sex.

Something is severly wrong with today's society, where ELEVEN YEAR OLD children are engaing in an act that GOD designed for MAN and WOMAN.

And I could continue to blame parents, the government, popular music, teachers and whoever else I think might be responsible for the demoralization of our next generation, but these blogs are chock-full of whining.

Simply put, I propose action. We all are familiar with that old saying: "It takes a village to raise a child."

It's time to become that village and start raising our children again.

The First Line

If you're a poet, what I'm about to talk about is no major secret. This is a plight that every writer is familiar with. If you consider yourself a Child of the Pen, then we can all call out the topic of this entry in unison, like the theme of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

The First Line.

It's as if the gift of writing is not without its troubles and trials.

You'd have the perfect thoughts. The most poetic situation would present itself to you: God's eye, presented as the bluest sky; rushing rapids, reminding you of the rush of your first kiss; the most beautiful woman/man in the entire cosmos who is never going to notice you, etc.

The only problem is, how do you start? How do you get the idea from your heart to your hand, your mind to your pen, your soul to the empty screen/paper?

Of course, as annoying as this issue is, it is not without answer. Otherwise, I probably would've given up a long time ago. A very helpful modern translation of Job Chapter 32 Verses 18 to 22 says,:

"I'm ready to speak my piece. That's right! It's my turn -- and it's about time! I've got a lot to say, and I'm bursting to say it. The pressure has built up, like lava beneath the earth. I'm a volcano ready to blow. I have to speak -- I have no choice. I have to say what's on my heart, and I'm going to say it straight -- the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I was never any good at bootlicking; my Maker would make short work of me if I started in now!"

Stronger than the force of a thousand bulls, when you have to write, not much can keep you from fulfilling that task. Sometimes, all you need is time.

Besides, wine is not the only thing that gets better with time. Look at your closet. See?

Sometimes, the perfect beginning needs to hit you repeatedly. Or mercilessly. Maybe you need to listen to a certain song that literally THROWS the poem/blog/song out of you. Like the above verse states, it gets to the point where holding it in becomes akin to a health risk. As a matter of fact, psychologists will tell you that release will be more than theraputic.

And after that first line? It'll all flow like Niagara Falls (Aren't you tired of that analogy?).

Dichotomy

I'm a Christian. And I'm a Hip-Hop kid.

I'm a Hip-Hop kid. And I'm a Christian.

These two statements are not the same. Yet I am the same. I am a Christian Hip-Hop kid. I am a Hip-Hop Christian kid.

I'm from the house that KRS-One built, on the foundation of King Solomon. I stand in my B-boy stance, in an effort to dance like David danced. A few minutes ago, I tried to familiarize myself with this new thingy called "The Wu-Tang" while calling out "Ballliiinn'...". If I could, I'd marry Lauryn Hill, but I don't even know if she's a Proverbs 31 Woman. Chingy makes me mad and Rapper's Delight makes me smile. I'd spit a 16 with Mos Def if at all possible, but I couldn't do it in the name of Allah.

Since I first heard Biggie's "Let's Ride", I've been taking Distance Learning classes at the Temple of Hip-Hop. But before then, I've called myself a believer. Singing along with Ron Kenoly and Kirk Franklin in the kitchen with my little sister, it was all I knew. A few years later, and my tastes include Kanye West and Tye Tribbett. All I believe has been sculpted from a lifetime of following Christ. Yet, connecting myself with the art of Spoken Word, I take my pencil and scribble a line between a statement and a rant.

And the line tends to blur, because even if I draw it at foolishness like low-hanging chains and Ms. New Booty, who's being fooled? Am I that mature that I am not influenced? Does the world have such a grip on me that I can't see what's being done?

I'm a Hip-Hop Kid. I'm a Christian.

I am a Christian. I am a Hip-Hop head.

God requires all of me. Hip-Hop desires more of me. God wants me to be distinct, set myself apart. Hip-Hop says the same thing, but everyone else tries to look the part. And I'd stop listening to it if I could/knew how to, because scripture says that God pretty much despises anything lukewarm. (And who does?)
What does this say about me? For all the lyrical prowess that Talib Kweli possesses, it is still an undeniable fact that our faiths are two different things. Where do I draw the line? Do constantly pacify myself by saying something like, "This is between God and I"? And if so, what about all the souls who see me dancing to Black Eyed Peas? How are they to know that I am saved when I'm busy, shaking "My Humps"?

And that goes for so many other things.

Rated R Movies (Not counting "The Passion").

Chapelle's Show.

Def Poetry Jam.

Friends who live a different lifestyle than my faith prescribes.

What a Dichotomy am I when my lifestyle does not support my faithstyle.