I am really feeling the passion and the heartache and depth in your words. You have painted a picture of despair and possible hopelessness. And you close it up with a solution that has been swept under the rug of America’s carpet. Thank you for being apart of the the LAB and the LAB Underground. I felt blessed reading your work.
September 4, 2011 at 7:18 pm
A poignant and very sad state of affairs Chaysnee and its even more so, that it took many years for doctors to even know the affects of alcohol or cigarettes not to even mention harder drugs on the unborn. I’m so glad that we finally found out and most ‘caring’ mothers will cease and desist these habits at least whilst pregnant. You told the story so well and I commend you for it. Well done
September 5, 2011 at 12:18 pm
Thank you Frankie for reading I truly appreciate you taking the time to read
September 5, 2011 at 11:31 pm
Thank you David I really do appreciate you introducing me to the LAB
September 5, 2011 at 11:27 pm
I agree with you, David.
September 6, 2011 at 2:40 pm
By David Cardenas
We been fighting this battle for centuries
We are ghosts, dogs; encamped in penitentiaries
Implanted in the mind of the weak and desolate
Whispering songs of hopelessness with every breath
We sleep in parks and also in homes of millionaires
We are cigarette sparks that get lost in children’s stares
We are the final thought pushing people off of a bridge
Suicidal slices and blood filled floors from razor slit wrists
We sleep in the mind of the desperate who carry guns
“Go ahead, shoot them, it’s over with they are done”
We go to church and point out that girl with the nice body
Distracting you from the Truth and all things that are Godly
We are spirits engrained in your favorite alcoholic beverage
We hand you the keys to your car, just for leverage
It is us that close the eyes of the honest so you can cheat
Go ahead, start off small, as sin sinks in and slowly creeps
It is us, slipping sensual sexual deviant thoughts about others
We are the drugs that make you steal from your mothers
We will steal, kill and destroy just to get your soul before you hit the coffin
We are evil, we are the devil and for most… we are the forgotten
Here, take another drink…
September 4, 2011 at 7:47 pm
great challenge and great poem d as well as the host
September 4, 2011 at 8:14 pm
Thanks Leslie, the LAB as reinvigorated my love for writing on the fly. This topic jumped out at me.
September 4, 2011 at 8:58 pm
Powerful Brother thanks
September 5, 2011 at 6:12 am
DAMN DAVE…..U NEVER JAB. ALL HAY-MAKERS HUH…GREAT INK. I GOT MORE TO SAY BUT, I’LL JUST FALL BACK CUZ THIS RIGHT TOUCES ALOT OF ANGLES. GREAT SUBJECT
September 5, 2011 at 7:33 am
Thanks, Hamza. What’s a jab? I’m “Mike Tysoning it”. I’m swinging for the fence, either the write or myself will end up “lights out”. lol
September 5, 2011 at 4:16 pm
Such truth here David. It’s not so much the monkey on your back, its the devil for sure. Great INK
September 5, 2011 at 12:21 pm
Thanks, Frankie. I just think sometimes we forget that “evil or the devil” are always lurking. I heard this saying one time in a movie and it went like this: “Do you believe in the devil”, response, “No”. “You should, he believes in you”. That is so profound and I believe we all need to take stock wit the voices in our head. I’m glad you like.
September 5, 2011 at 4:19 pm
Great ink David. This speaks to me so clearly. I have a piece in my archives that would fit this topic altho it’s very personal ~ even 45 – 50 years past leaves me with exposed nerves. xo
September 6, 2011 at 2:43 pm
I would love to read it Marsha, post it or send it to me.
September 12, 2011 at 12:23 pm
TRUTH YOU HAVE GREAT TALENT IMPRESSIVE ALL TRUTH IN THIS
September 12, 2011 at 3:23 am
Thank you very much Jerome. It’s funny how we believe in God, but not the devil.
September 12, 2011 at 12:24 pm
September 13, 2011 at 2:10 am
remember me when you pass me on the street
take a picture of my stench
place me in that box
call me trash
call me nobody
call me a junkie
call me an alchy
take away what little dignity
has been crushed into this pavement
i now sit and beg for change on
but you sit on your high horse
and judge me sinner
tell me where i have been
as if these shoes where on my feet
remember my story
see me crazy
see me pills
numb the hurt
make you go away
make the laughing
the “go get a fucking job ”
when you switch seats on the bus
cause i smell of all the thing
you cant stand
treating me as if i was diseased
remember the look on my face
my head held low
cause it was trained to stay that way
never looking up to the sun
cause hope lies there
and there is no hope for the wicked
so i guess i am damned to hell
in and out of jail
wrong place , wrong time
its been like that all my life
thrown away all my life
just wondering when i will finally find home…….
September 4, 2011 at 8:04 pm
Very deeply written. I felt that one as my thoughts moved throughout the city and peered into the eyes of our homeless.
September 4, 2011 at 8:57 pm
YEAH…NOW I LIKE THIS VIEW…REAL AS IT GETS
September 5, 2011 at 7:29 am
Yes, we all see them and its shameful, but we all have to take responsibility for our own actions I suppose, and once you get hooked, its a downward spiral. Thats not to say we shouldn’t have compassion, for there for the grace of god, go I. Great INK Leslie
September 5, 2011 at 12:24 pm
So real they become a fixture in our every day scenery
September 6, 2011 at 12:00 am
Mizz Fab, This is a beast of a piece
September 6, 2011 at 1:16 pm
Wow! i’ve seen this scenario first-hand and it’s no laughing matter. deep, deep ink Chasynee. i agree that the first step the the cure is through acknowledgment.
September 4, 2011 at 9:37 pm
Thank you for reading
September 5, 2011 at 6:13 am
~ FORGOTTON ~
IT CAN’T BE A MEMOREY
IF IT SURROUNDS ME
DULLING MY PERIPHERAL
FORCING TO FORGET THE VISUAL
STRENGTHENING MY INSENCITIVITY
NEVER QUESTIONING, COULD IT BE ME
NEVER A TENDER THOUGHT OF ANOTHER
DISTANCE OF TRUTH BECOMES FURTHER
SHAME RESIDES WERE HOPE WOULD LAST
SHADOWS HOLD INTITIES OF A DECADENT PAST
THE BAREER’S OF OL’FASHION WAYS
THE KEY HOLDERS OF BETTER DAYS
CAST INTO THE STREETS IS THE LAW’S RITUAL
FORCED TO LIVE IN SOCIETIES PERIPHERAL
A LAND THAT OUTCASTS THEIR SOLDERS
IS WHAT I CALL ”DOMESTIC – TERRORISM
TURNING VETERANS HOMELESS
IS THE REWARD FOR THEIR HEROISM
THE IGNORANT LACK ANSWERS
YET KNOWING THEY NEED THEM
BUT TO BLIND TO REALIZE
THEY NEVER TOOK TIME TO FEED THEM
THE COURSE OF OUR FUTURE, IS OBVIOUSLY ROTTEN
PUT FAITH IN YOUR LORD, OR THE SWORD
AND PRAY, THAT THE RIGHT PATH, WASN’T FORGOTTEN
L . A . B . ASSASSIN…
CODE NAME…LION – SLAYER
September 5, 2011 at 7:28 am
So many vets end up on skid row and its shameful. These guys put their lives on the line for all of us, A great reminder to us, of the dignity and support we owe these guys. Great write.
September 5, 2011 at 12:27 pm
This is so deep Hamza. You always bring it. I love this line, “Shame reside where hope would last/Shadows hold entities of a decadent past”. I love the meaning of it, the flow and the rhymes scheme of it. Nicely done.
September 5, 2011 at 4:14 pm
She works harder than any man and gets paid lower than minimum wage. She has a life style of non-profitable degradation. Turned out and tricked out not knowing what pestilence is rolling in her mouth as well as her body. They call it the Red Light district but the red she sees is not from the halogen. Red that flows from the slaughter of a disobedient hook that catches the street lights glare. Her feet have equal millage as her body.
I wonder what she see in the mirror what do she feel. She changes her look so she can’t identify the walking corpse formally known as her self. She applies make up and a wig to hide from her self. So numb to her surroundings she doesn’t even noticed the hand coming at her from a man that takes his share of her pay.
So lost on the stroll looking for Novocain in the pipe and releasing her blues into the bottle. Trying to dull her senses and bury the pain that will stain her brain and make her cry later. She wants to be numb not trying to remember the faces or places where she had lost her self even more. Trying to ignore the names she is referenced to because she knows she is a whore.
Every once in a while she does a self-revelation that involves the promise to stop.
But it falls on her deaf soul that is rattled with the thought of “ I don’t know how to do anything else this all I know is to be a hoe” Internal demons talks her back into the game. Where she loses her self and nobody knows her by her name. No one know her by her name even when she comes up dead with a bullet to her head because she lost her self on the stroll and decided that the only way to stop the pain is to apply a self inflicted wound to her brain.
September 6, 2011 at 12:47 am
You showed the subject here to be a woman with a heart and a soul. You showed her to be human where so many see her as a piece of garbage, you showed her as someone who bleeds every minute of the day. You showed her as someone really beautiful inside. This write brought tears to my eyes Chas. Brilliant!
September 6, 2011 at 2:44 am
Chas your writes are amazing. You capture the plight of the world an illustrate them in your words. This piece here is a true example of the small mind of the equal rights that are truly not equal.
September 6, 2011 at 12:51 pm
wow . amazing piece of reality to allot of ladies .great job
September 6, 2011 at 10:38 pm
Woooow, what great story telling here. So deep and filled with hurt and pain. I felt the truth in her fears and I thank you for drawing this picture for me to see.
September 7, 2011 at 12:26 am
This is a very powerful piece cousin.
September 6, 2011 at 1:11 pm
loved this ink hamza
September 6, 2011 at 10:37 pm
MOST ENJOYABLE INK…”CHASYNEE”
September 5, 2011 at 7:35 am
Thank you for reading My work
September 6, 2011 at 12:55 am
Head bent down shuffling along
Hands dug deep in tattered pockets
Face brown with dirt and matted stubble
Alone amongst the crowds and rockets
In his world he sees many brutal visions
Blinding rocket flashes burning flesh
Screams of civilians sobs and pleading
In busy civvy street he screams afresh
Ducks for cover behind parked cars
Terrified thoughts scrambled all a mesh
Smell of Agent Orange fills his lungs
As he tries to cover his burning flesh
Vietnam has left its brutal mark
It was more than forty years ago
Came home damaged and mentally broke
To wife and children never a word spoke
Now all alone in his tortured world
Wandering the streets of his homeland
Mind and thoughts reside in Vietnam
Curious people watching don’t understand
September 5, 2011 at 12:46 pm
wow…extra well done
September 5, 2011 at 12:53 pm
Thanks my Knight! 🙂
September 6, 2011 at 3:10 am
Wow, this was awesome Frankie. Great visuals on such a deep topic and with so much truth in it. Bravo, you done did this one right.
September 5, 2011 at 4:22 pm
I appreciate your comment David, thanks so much
September 6, 2011 at 3:11 am
Nice Frankie and often our service men comes back home with all kinds of mental issues that are over looked or they are in denial. Then they are left to rome the streets blending in with the others that was forgotten.
September 5, 2011 at 11:39 pm
Thanks Chas, and the Vietnam war was such an ‘unpopular’ war, that I feel those guys suffered the added stigma of being despised by so many.
September 6, 2011 at 3:13 am
The post traumatic stress is a major thing in the military. Some suffer from it in majors ways and your piece Frankie captured this in it’s total intensity. I truly live this piece. Being a former soldier, I often sit n wonder if I exhibit the minor symptoms from being in Iraq. Magnificent Ink!
September 6, 2011 at 11:44 am
Chas this piece is truly captured a plight that we tend to ignore, yet it sits boldly in our face. Your words are poignant reality. Very powerfully written. Thank you for letting your ink be our eyes.
September 5, 2011 at 1:22 pm
The Never Forgotten
Non stopping, I flip flows, I can’t be forgotten
Because my ink always spills when my mind is dropping
Memories come and go, thoughts fade in the wind
But they will live forever with the shades of my pen
I’m painting picture of my soul, putting them on canvass
Put you ear to this paper, listen close and you can jam this
What I drop pops and bubbles so hard it feels like brail
Leaving no stops or troubles from my scars, from my hell
Writing a master piece while the Master sleeps
And while the masses creep, I’ll be the last to leap
It’s like… Yeah, do you feel me?
This is my legacy; it’s one that I’m leaving to my children
Like John said, “Let it be”, but I say, “Don’t fight the feeling”
I can’t be forgotten if my memories are in your brain
No death, no coffin, just me etched in deep like grain
This is my life on paper permanently inked like tattoos
And I’ll be remembered forever for the way that I fearlessly blast through
September 5, 2011 at 5:00 pm
Amen! your life on paper is for sure and its the best legacy to leave your children. Brilliant write David.
September 6, 2011 at 2:49 am
Thanks Frankie, I just wanted to try an give a different take on the topic. I”m glad you like. 🙂
September 6, 2011 at 6:00 am
The ink is our legacy, and we will never be forgotten. Great ink Ciph
September 6, 2011 at 11:39 am
You never lied!!! lol, thanks brother.
September 7, 2011 at 12:21 am
awesome job d
September 6, 2011 at 10:39 pm
When my pen hits the paper it hit like the bass line in your favorite song. It hits hard really hard. Dropping the words and the knowledge that my mouth can’t seem to speak. At times it writes my heart when my soul is weak Bleeding out ink painting a portrait with words that speaks louder than the sub woofer in your trunk. My pen writes the truth. It writes a message a message so deep a bottle couldn’t contain it. Messages so deep you cant forget it or misunderstand it. The ink spills and the words come to life. Blot images made into words of passion, love,lust,sex.desire and life. My pen and my paper is a match made in holy matrimony The paper is the husband and the pen is the wife. She brings life into letters that form words that makes a thought complete. My pen stays on repeat waiting for the next verse to drop. When my Pen hits the paper you can always hear it. Like hearing thunder roll and the words shoots across the page like lighting.
September 7, 2011 at 5:49 am
This is amazing!!! I can clearly see a documentary being made from this.
From reading this piece, I can visualize every word, and know how deep this issue is.
It goes in-depth with what society is neglecting to let be known–
that there are people out there who are living in less than perfect environments.
Many of them just want to be heard and not just seen,
but most people only see them as ‘the ones that do not belong in their world.’
But they’re humans just like us…so why not give them a chance to speak?
Ask yourself this question: If you were in their shoes, how would you feel?
Think about it……………………………………………………
September 5, 2011 at 9:20 pm
Thank you Cenica for reading and showing your support
September 6, 2011 at 12:58 am
Indeed! it frightenes the heart outa me to contemplate that thought Cenica. But, I do try to see these people as worthy human beings as I’m sure 99% of them are. None of us know what circumstances led people to be homeless. I’m not talking about kids who run away from home because they dont like the ‘rules’ but, people who are obviously mature and some if you speak to them, highly educated too, but are homeless. It really fasinates me, how they have come to be this way. Great INK
September 6, 2011 at 2:55 am
thts a true read of how real mental illness is and how it is as she says, forgotten.
September 5, 2011 at 10:55 pm
Thanks for reading Alfred Im glad you dropped in thanks
Look beneath the skin, beyond the soul, where hope dangles;
You’ll find a lost personality tormented laying bare and mangled.
Devastated by atrocities brought on by a battered living;
A desolate substance that caused the heart to be unforgiving.
Now ascend into the realms where tattered memories go to hide;
And witness a pain that only she could have held inside.
She was RAPED by her father, molested by her brothers;
Chastised by friends scorned by her own mother.
She concealed a dark past that brought her torrential downpour of tears at night;
Still, she awoke everyday with a spirit burning to fight.
It was the forgotten……..
Memories buried so deep even she had no thoughts of it’s reality;
To her they were only nightmares, truth was just to sad to believe.
Her soul burned with the anguish of a pain from those that should have been there to protect her;
Now she has forgotten them and wishes they would only forget her.
Lost memoirs of innocent that had never been;
Buried deep beneath the an unprotected skin.
Chosen not to be recalled, so far gone they have been forgotten;
Tales of another youth lost, but there was no one there to stop them.
September 6, 2011 at 11:32 am
wow outstanding job bp
September 6, 2011 at 10:40 pm
Thanks Mizz Fab
September 7, 2011 at 1:11 am
Bravo, brother. I am so impressed when I read your work. I never know what I’m gonna get. This is great story telling with a sad truth.
September 7, 2011 at 12:23 am
Thank you sir, I try to spread my words and soar
September 7, 2011 at 1:12 am
Drowning in self sorrow HIs heart wading through the floods of pain. Betrayed by a mother that yells ” You wont be shit”
He sit in despair trying to breathe through the cloud of negativity dished out by his life bringer. He is a product of an un fit mother.
Going through life never hearing the words I love you. Fallen pray to the streets to the first one that calls him brother. They arm him with tools they say will help him through life but all they gave him was a gun and some stripes. Never knowing family he fell victim to a simulated father and the gun became his mother. His street buddies that cook a key for him became his kin. He still is empty looking for acceptance. …………
( Ok random Brain Blurp)
Good work Black
September 7, 2011 at 5:25 am
Thank you Chas
September 7, 2011 at 10:39 am
Damn BP … i’m speechless here!!!! how in the hell did you get inside my head like that?!?! Almost word for word, yup, that’s how it was for me comin’ up. smh …. wow
September 6, 2011 at 2:49 pm
its the Heart of a Phoenix Marsha, and yet we still rise. Thank you for reading
September 6, 2011 at 2:56 pm
Amen! so true Black Phoenix …. we still rise with a vengeance!
September 6, 2011 at 3:35 pm
the ink bleeds for freedom when u write sis, u r awesome…keep it up
September 11, 2011 at 3:44 am
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