Words from a rising generation, say it brotha!

Grandpa: At night, as my soul creeps, with a brush of cold breeze, which constantly lingers, from my arms, swervin' down towards my fingers, At night, as my mind reaches beyond the horizon, to communicate with the super-natural,as my lungs collapse when brought to this, super magical world of spiritual redemption, to my publicity, of the, naked eye, a, life time journey at night, and, endless boredom during the day, I, travel beyond the surface of the face of the earth, to consume the knowledge of another dimension, while exceeding to comprehend with these verses, as i, continue to spit, while being dragged into the world of spirits, and im pissed, clinching my fists, tight, even harder, ..because, i can not locate my GRANDFATHER....) (Blah: Living through struggles, being launched a hundred deep under the puddle, at 99 feet, my, mind bends and twists behind the chinky eyes that defines me, as, just..THAT asian, thats why when i spit every sentence, i mention things that attract attention to create an illusion, so i, could, define me, Define me, as i, define the meaning of each and every word in the sentences of my poem, and, i'll still keep going, keep flowin', writing poetry, with the pen gripped tight in my right, between my thumb and index, flyin' across the piece of loose leaf, dancing, forming letters, into words, into sentences, into paragraphs, into a relevent unmerciful poem, grabbing my soul and squeezing the light out of it, allowing my heart to pump quick, my lungs to gasp for air, and my tongue to apply saliva and spit tasty rhymes for others to devour, and consume the truth....

By Dean Uppasai

Reflecting on the Definition

We all speak of love as if it was meant for mere relationships. Love trandscends agreements to be together. I love the quiet, I love the stars, I love the being who gave birth to me, I love the creases in the your eyes when you smile. Who decided that love was meant to be chained and shackled to one defintion that is shoved down our throats? When has love become a money making scheme, a product to be bought and sold?

By Ifrah Ahmed

Some bars to my verse for "Quest to Find"

Sharing my gift with the world has been my mission,
using, language and diction, the mic is my addiction,
cook my work up in the kitchen, let my voice be heard,
street curbs be the canvas where my thoughts occur,
letting the pen be my eyes when my vision is blurred,
spilling blood between the lines, an inscription of verbs,
permanent ink, wait, take a minute to think,
let the sediment sink to the bottom of your ocean

Pangea

They stripped my words; peeled off the letters like scantily clad articles of clothing. Augmenting my speech naked as nude similes caress the erogenous vowels of vocabulary, stealing my vivid desire for breath. I gasp. I-O-U nothing except for a continental reminder that our consonants are constantly drifting but I know that if Pa-n-Gea got back together again we could have Pangea. I’m sorry son but Pa-n-Gea were just drifting. Our relationship was malnourished by a lack of vowel intimacy. I-O-U everything a father should provide. Now the words we speak get washed along the crimson tides, tying my vicarious solidarity into a vexed knot. Squeeze my metaphorical origami conundrum into a glass bottle and throw it into a calypso ocean and hope the message will find its destiny. My destiny resides in an oasis where I can swim freely among the abstract and dry my surfaces with the porous pages of the dictionary, word. Pages bonded by voice and if voice be the measure of change, let my words sit in your palms so you can feel the weight of the world. There is no scale except for the hands of understanding that can measure change. Though my hands callused from the attempts to break loose these chains, I’ve gained a new understanding of change and arranged it into syllables. The pen is my instrument orchestrating symphonic harmonies that glide mellifluously through consciousness.