"Poetry is the most direct and simple means of expressing oneself in word."
Northrup Frye

Ramen Noodles
My Oodles and noodles were served by my own hands in a measuring cup/bowl - my favorite one.
I had been at an age where beef broth was still a servitude for me and not a disruption.
The house was Mine. It was 9:00 and not a soul made a noise in this lovely house besides myself and the Telivision.
I would lay on the black rough feeling couch which was only into place because it had sentimental value, and enthrall in Yu-Gi-Oh.
The thoughts in my mind were scattered more than dust on a floorboard: Why is their hair like that, I wan't to ride my heelies and Where is Rodney. As time moved faster than usual, as every other Saturday morning, I heard the floarboards creek from upstairs.
As I turn my neck upwords to look at the ceiling i think, There goes my Utopia.
Then, the sound of a bathroom door opening and closing renforce my theory.
I swart to walk to the basement.
As I slumbered down the steps to talk to my Mam-mom, I smile with glee knowing the answer to the question I was about to ask;
What do you want she would say. And I would ask my favorite question at the time, Can I go outside?

Feedback from Jesús
+ Way to set a scene
+ Interesting use of words
+ The way you switch speakers is good.
A few spelling mistakes
A little confused about the line with the beef broth, I somewhat get it, but experiment with that line.
Ramen noodles (revised)
My Oodles and noodles were served by myself to myself in my favorite bowl.
I was at an age where beef broth was still a servitude for me; not a nuisance.
The castle was mine. It was 9:00 and not a resting soul made noise yet besides the cat and the Television.
As I relaxed on the rough black couch, which was still in place because of my aunts sentimental value, I enthralled in Yu-Gi-Oh.
The thoughts on my mind ranged from usual to unique: What world is Yu-Gi in?, I want some more Noodles, where's my cousin?
As the time to myself was steadily taken away by father time like every other Saturday, I heard the floorboards upstairs creak; damn, there goes my utopia.
From previous altercations, i knew to turn off the TV and continue on with my meaningless life; I began to walk downstairs to the basement, where my grandmother slept.

_
The Rift Poem:
It was a mistake
1. When my eyes first locked with yours, I noticed an immature pebble in a land of sophisticated rocks; an oddball who caught my eye by not catching my attention at all.
2. But as time progressed I noticed you more than I noticed the work given to me at school.
3. I regarded your fragile lips which screamed out my name and your ebony eyes began to drive my attraction to you insane – I had to have you.
4. I rated your personality fathomless on a scale of 1 through 2. And even at that time I though of you like feet think of shoes and quitters think to loose.
5. Our first real conversation was one that I will never ignore.
6. “Hey, I’m KaBoni, what is your name.”
7. “My name is such-and-such and you better not forget”
8. My reply was one of the smoothest words I knew, “Bet”
9. But in the minute conversation we had about nothing, your beauty overridden my eyes to see anything in the scenario but your angelic face
10. And in that moment of Beauty and the Beast I was the disgrace.
I could imagine you by my side when i woke up.
Though it never prospered to that point though.
When we were together, I became a mirror that could not close its eyes to your belonging - you had me mesmerized.
Like a clock with a broken second hand, every minute of the day, I could not get past your beauty.
And, regardless of our situations we somehow clicked.
Compare us to a remote; lost at some points but found in the end . . .
---------
Ode to . . . the notebook
[You were there.

[At the worst of moments when life seemed unfair

You were there

on my back like a spine you were an extension of mine

me and you not together should've been considered a crime, i loved you.

We had wonderful moments; my feelings were an eternal spaghetti string and you were a black hole at the aglet of my life.

I could tell you anything: remember that girl in fourth grade; Who's wavy hair made mimickers out of oceans.

And her skin was the suaveness of a newborn baby.

But when you betrayed me, I was as angry as a drill sergeant in the US navy.

You allowed yourself to be taken by rouged souls and dependent thinkers

Who depended on my words in your body to linger as hurtful words followed me throughout that grade

They say verbal bullying doesn't hurt, shit; I’ve already had a taste.

But you always came back to me; regardless of our altercations

Our situations were those that needed respiration

But we were self revivers, a car with run-flats-

Staying on our feet and living life because we had life I still think of you.

But my love has faded just as your face does;






A found poem
§ Ball is life, and . . .
§ Ultimate is life and . . .
§ Track is life but . . .
§ What is life?
§ Because I thought life was life.
§ My family would be blown away if we could go outside
§ And say, “Oh well
§ Fuck the haters and be who you are.”
§ It's be called a shinning star.
§ If my rays reached earth could I be called a sun
§ I’m more than a figure breathing air, I’m also a son.
§ An annoying little kid, dreams of smoking on biscuits and toting smoke.
§ Bitch bad, woman good; so he sees females as a true gentlemen should.
§ Without contempt for the hit and more content with the love
§ Don’t do drugs!
§ It will wreck your life
§ Be fresh for the ladies, man. Don’t be trife(ling).
§ A found poem? What dat be?
§ Your eyes ar e two pools of water as smooth as the sea.
Get out of my face with that poem.
§ Should I get the red or the black slippers?
§ Don’t get your penis caught in a zipper
§ It hurts!
§ Go to work, get a job, pay some bills; then you can go outside
§ Sike naw, just get ya black ass home by nine.
§ Who you yellin’ at nigga? Watch your tone!
§ I’ll crack ya damn face,
§ She can’t read my poker face
§ You payin’ half a stack for some Foams, nigga they probably fake.
§ Where are we going? It’s nippy out here.
I'm hungry, give me money to get some food!
I'm not a dollar boy no more.
§ You sound like an old ass man.
§ I hate Lord of the rings
§ I do what I can to stay alive
§ These wanna hold me back
§ You got the wrong lotion, take it back.
§ I am a Hebrew, who follows the God of Abraham & Noah
§ I would say F- the world but she’s been through everybody.
I like sprite soda.
------
I was raised by . . . the block.
I was raised by evil-doers who I would call my friends and ghetto basketball courts that rated a two out of ten
What led my Saturday afternoons is where I would go after my Saturday cartoons; I’d place my big-boy pants over my fruit of the loom and then get away from the home I thought of as doom.
I hated being stuck inside. Because outside of them shackles known as doors was a immeasurable beauty know as natures galore,
She would lure me with her opinions of trust and her bemusement of activity.
She would molest me on my own block, making me come back more times than I would go to the corner store,
For some hugs. Because the house was my destruction yet outside was my drug.
To my spoon I would say, “When I’m done with you and that silly rabbit, I’m going to go into the street today and let that bitch of a sidewalk have it.”
Because I was raised on the sidewalk; never leaving the edge of the curb unless a ball went into the street then I would say, “It’s my turn.”
Running with glee as a car almost hit me, I didn’t care
Because the sidewalk would look at me with contempt and just stare.
When a block party went down, and yes they went down.
The people of the block would collaborate like a business from downtown.
Barbeques at every other home, music so loud it went through your dome, the sun seemed to understand the day, and bring just the perfect amount of rays that way.
I was raised by peer pressuring blocks and hammers that stayed hot. Where another man getting shot was like a pebble being kicked by our socks; at times we had no shoes. Rubbed down souls decreased our rubbed down sneakers until all that was left was our toes.
I was raised by 52nd street hoes, who took care of their children more than their clothes; their fight for survival almost no one knows. There is nothing wrong with tha thought.
I was raised by good kids gone bad; sucking on lollipops became smoking on weed, wearing blouses and dresses were substituted by tights and tight shirts.
I was raised by uncles on drugs getting arrested by cops because they had the works. And grandmothers who took the form of cane-tooting, writing letters all day with a Nib-tipped ink pen, When they were the ones who ruled the drug-game pawns, the kingpins were them.
The property known as my house was a deck of cards controlled by the joker known as me because a king & Queen era no aquí.
We were united in chaos, so my escape were the trees, who never withheld me from the truth but described it to me like victim to a sketch artist
But what was I to do. My place to play was their place to misbehave,
My utopia was a place for them to sell their coke and stuff. A kid growing up where surviving was just luck.
I would grow up on that block where being sad was being a bitch, so I grew up and learned how to act be optimistic, regardless if I seen the world as realistic I made a promise to myself one day to not die in Philly labeled as another statistic because being black in America is not only a blessing It is artistic you don’t have to agree with the story, just open up your ears and listen . . . to the block.



Poem (Free write)
I was once told that I am an optimistic person.
I was once told that because a smile is on my face, even at the worst of my days that I am optimistic.
They say that, “You smile for no reason, even when there is no reason to smile at all”
And I’d reply, “To me, not smiling is considered treason, smiling is like my personal law.”
“Why bring out my afflictions on a heaven bound soul? Who’s only prospect of waking up was to enjoy the day”
Then they would say, “For a lack of better words there is not always a reason to smile; for example what if you lost your backpack full of fruit roll-up snacks or you just got smacked by a man in prison nicknamed Fat Rat”.
Oh snap: shit just got real, but . . .
I disagreed with that. Just because a smile is present even when the current moment isn’t a gift I am still thankful for the ribbon.
Because the ribbon is what holds the present together – the ribbon, is God.
Or my heart or my brain. Depending on your point of view just know that the ribbon is keeping you together too.
But in actuality, the ribbon represents anything that you still stay on this ungrateful earth for:
It could be your mother or your sis, it could be lemonade or Brisk,
It could be cheese and grits or it could be . . . ass and tits.
But regardless of the reason, the ribbon is an anchor to our metaphorical boat that keeps us afloat
The ribbon is the giant fan that keeps us insightful in the unglodly smoke
But what about those who don't have a gift to put the ribbon on?
You say, "Some people don't deserve a ribbon! Some people don't deserve a life!"
Why dafuq not.
Just because we get shot by our own brethren and kill each-other on a daily agenda; a life is worthless?
We bleed sins and inhale the toxic smoke of negativity. It enters our bloodstream with a mission and its result is successful.
Teenagers turned into animals by the drugs sold under the blue-line, kids forgetting that it is a fine line between adult and child, fist became guns and tame became wild;
And now I understand why you ask: “Why do you smile?”
Because I know myself. I . . . I KaBoni Bailey am a dark-skinned train of innovation and motivation: picking up passengers who want to strive in the physical life to be prosperous in the next one.
Love runs through my blood . . . not hate. So all aboard! MY TRAIN OF SELF-RESPECT AND my seats of connection because WE . . . are a force to be reckoned with.
So why be envious of me when you should be envious of no one but yourself; because we are all beautiful
Just like that ribbon on a metaphorical Christmas present that a kid did not receive.
It is time, for us to grow as a forest and not as weeds, growing on the sidewalk and getting chopped down every week.
It is time for Us . . . to not see each other as a barrier, for my people to make a modern day Tulsa . . . a modern day community
Because we are only a neighborhood; but my smile will never fade away like a dark stain on a white shirt. Why?
Because my knowledge of what we can do is beyond the ribbon at this point it is . . . it is . . . a full blown Bubonic plague of insightfulness and understanding . .
So ALL aboard, because I’m taking us somewhere soon. And if you want to see the journey, you can come with me too.