– Ever since I was a
kid all I wanted to be was a poetic lyricist. – [Audience Member] Okay. – Like I had dreams of my pen transforming into a paintbrush or a magic wand. I’d become a master magician. Manipulating matter out of misery, making memorable moments
manifest instead of meaningless mold and mildew mumble from airless mouths of mediocre slam poets while I make my music.
– [Audience Member] Whoo, hey! See, the trick is allowing
your mind to become limitless. Creating an entire universe from discarded words and broken sentences. We slam poets gather stars, place them underneath our tongue, then spit out constellations. (crowd cheers) The Big Dipper, Northern Stars
wedged in-between our teeth. We free slaves when we speak. What I mean is, slam poetry is the galaxy’s
favorite form of speech, see. – [Audience Member] Yes. – We smoke science, snort philosophy, geology, Greek mythology. Not even Thor can hammer home the Iron Man if you gave him The Hulk end of the stick. Using bold words– (applause) Using bold words that
put all caps in America. I’m an angry black man
utilizing his voice. I cap-tion America then revert back into hysteria.
– Whoo! You know, that skid row kid
that made schizos cringe. This is the love child of Maya Angelou and The 18th Letter Rakim. This is literally lyrically
crème de la crème. Now this is, this is, this is God’s son. Like Jesus wearing Timbs,
– [Audience Member] Come on! – removing his limbs just to showcase his body of art. We don’t spit. We vomit and barf out agony, tragedy. – See, the poem writes through the lens of Othello’s hindsight. Now that’s 1080 Ph.D.
clarity so you can see our pain trilogy through
pages drenched in tears and hollow hollers hanging in hidden halls of Heaven’s gateway. See, poetry needs nothing but
the rhythm of God’s heartbeat. – [Audience] Yes! – You know what, poets? Sometimes I feel like we do it wrong. See, we recite onstage, but the traphouse is where we
should be selling these poems depending on how the fiend rode the high. We can move it by pound or sell it by the line. Take pieces of our broken emotions, stuff ’em in dime bags,
pair ’em with Zig Zags, and let you smoke ’em
thinking this shit right here, this shit right here, is called life. One puff and your ass will start living it or you might find inspiration to start your own damn business. Thinking this shit right here
is not for the faint of heart, this is grown fucking business. We, we become Basquiat, – painting suicide on the
belly of cumulous clouds, waiting on acid rain to
dissolve a decade of decadency depicted by false lyricists who don’t take this craft serious. So if you don’t bleed
it, I don’t believe it. Period. I’m just trying to break the cycle over anxious menstrual weight. See what I did there? Bleeding, period, cycle, menstrual? I’ll give you four to five days to think about it. Could be seven and I write Earth and the image of Heaven. We become the ghost of Malcolm X, pivoting like Muhammad Ali
while ripping the chainsaw. We will eat the change off
and come back next week just to do it all over again. – [Audience] Let’s go, let’s go!
(crowd cheers) – When you put your heart into
the pen, poetry always wins. (crowd cheers)