• You tell me to write a poem.
    But I don't want to write a poem;
    I want to create a composition that will
    Blow away the minds of those who stand before me.
    I want to write the words that will
    Rock the stars where they sit in the night sky.
    I want to paint the phrases that will
    Prove the judges' scores as meaningless numbers designed to transform my self-esteem.
    I want to do it all,
    With a Pepsi in one hand, and a pencil in the other.
    Not with ABC 7 and KRON 4 microphones thrust in my face,
    Not with a business suit to fake my true identity,
    But with this simple stick of wood and no.2 lead.
    Others call it a tool, but in truth it is an instrument of angels,
    Crafted to prove that even though actions speak louder than words,
    Words give dignity and understanding to the actions that came with them.
    We can not penetrate any cause if we can not understand the symptoms.
    So we write of the symptoms of the disease that holds the world in an iron grip.
    A virus wearing a business suit and an ABC 7 microphone constantly in its face,
    Granting lies and false promises to all who strain to hear.
    While those who don't hear remain blissfully unaware,
    Texting in class,
    Joking about each other's mothers,
    Buying brand names to show others they can afford it,
    Giving no concern to those who barely have enough for the needs,
    When there are greater problems to be focusing on.
    Maybe you see it, maybe you believe that
    Even we contribute to the cause that which I write about.
    I long to give the student in the desk next to mine some paper,
    And hand him an instrument of the angels,
    Then see if he will create the composition that will
    Blow away my mind as I watch his hand fly across the paper.
    Maybe he can write the words that will
    Rock the stars that sit invisible in the bright sky.
    I pray that he can paint the phrases that will
    Prove that the clothing ads are meaningless words designed to transform his self-esteem.
    But he hasn't a clue,
    Neither do I.
    Too many of us have no damn idea about the truth.
    In the words of Flobots, "There is a war going on for your mind."
    The virus trying to gain control and support through the magazine ads,
    The rich only get richer when you spend a hundred dollars on some new Jordan's,
    But it does no good for those of us who struggle to survive.
    People, we are no strangers to struggle.
    Neither are we strangers to loss.
    And this is one war you can not afford to lose.
    I fight by freestyling in my plain clothes,
    I don't let the pictures of muscular men get to me.
    Because even though there is some love in this world,
    Money makes the planet go 'round.
    And we give more and more to the wrong people,
    Who wish to spin the planet in their own direction.
    They plant sweatshops in foreign countries,
    Enlist eleven-year-olds in their rosters,
    Being paid below minimum wages,
    Operating the machines creating the shoes you wear.
    The men in the pinstripes know that the numbers only get larger,
    As people struggle to feed their family by using the only opportunity they have.
    Because even though they say America is a land of opportunity,
    Companies thrive in foreign nations where freedoms are restricted.
    And the American consumer gives them more every year,
    Because through the media they tell you exactly what you "need".
    They use the latest in fashion to move people like puppets,
    Telling us what we can't live without.
    People, they have departments specializing with this ventriloquist act.
    They fight the war for your mind.
    Don't get me started on politics,
    I no longer know who to turn to.
    The White House says they have all the right reasons,
    But why are they doing all the wrong things?
    I see conspiracy theorists all ranting everything I hope is a lie,
    But can there possible be a shred of truth in them anymore?
    Is 9/11 a terrorist attack,
    Or a government-planned illusion?
    Created to get us to respond the way they want us to respond,
    At the price of a several thousand lives?
    These questions are trenches in my skull,
    My mind a battle ground, now at a standstill.
    I see politicians on TV assuring us everything is all right,
    When it so clearly is not.
    Even our nation's leaders, under red white and blue,
    They fight the war for your mind.
    So I am fighting back.
    I arm myself with an instrument of angels,
    I and I write until my arms go sore and I can think no more.
    I create the composition that will
    Blow away the minds who stand before me.
    I write the words that will
    Rock the stars that hang past the clouds.
    I paint the phrases that will
    Prove the judges' scores as meaningless numbers designed to transform my self-esteem.
    Because people, there is only one thing those higher up do not want us to do.
    They don't want us to think.