Michael Clay

Thoughts Of An Incarcerated Brotha: What lies beneath & Poem, by Michael Clay

When it comes to the art of poetry, I always admired those that captured beauty in words. Words that triggered emotions you never felt, or the way the poet could make you feel as though you’re in the moment with them. Through out my life, I’ve written a number of poems, but they never really had the same effect. I always kept them to myself, they mostly served as a way to vent, or explore ideas, and feelings.

Another I love is rap music. I greatly admired those that could do it – be it amateurs, or professionals. To be honest, I was also envious because I couldn’t do it. But, I was always inspired by people like 2pac, and Eminem; that spoken the shit you could feel, the shit that was real. Nine times out of ten, I felt like they were talking to me, and about me. I always wanted to rap, and I faked it a few times, but it was whack. Mainly because I didn’t understand the art, and I had nothing to say, or at least I believed I didn’t. Whenever, I tried to voice my pain; be it from childhood occurrences, or adult happenings – I just couldn’t get the words out.

Until today this morning. I woke up with these thoughts swirling around in my mind, and all these feelings competing for attention. Then words began to form rhythmically. At first I fought it because I wanted to go back to sleep, but I felt compelled to get up, and write down the rhythmic feelings., When I was done writing, I looked at the finished product, and determined that I had either a decent poem, or very raw rap lyrics. Either way, I found myself pretty pleased of what I wrote. It’s called That’s Why I Cry. I believe it conveys a story of a persons transformation of a man; that later suffers great heartbreak, and pain. I still don’t consider myself a rapper, or poet by any stretch of the imagination. God knows there’s much emotion, and unresolved issues bottled up, but to place myself in the same category as the real artist that create real art I believe would be a disservice to them, and down right disrespectful. But, I do hope that this isn’t the last time I’m inspired to voice my emotions on paper; I really enjoyed it. It is amazing what lies beneath.

December 05, I watched the birth of my seed – I concede, I was scared, no males to compare – all those niggaz were players./But somethin’ came alive when my daughter arrived./Was it direction, was it purpose – no words can explain, but life, it had changed and I welcomed it gladly./Til August 28th she’s no longer with us sadly. And that’s why I cry.

Don’t be ashamed of the pain – go insane- you were blamed for the sleighing but in vain – let it rain, wit tears from my soul from memories I hold./ You’re not the same, so you made it through, and the devil and his minions can’t keep hold of you.But it’s a hole in you, deep dark and black just like the solar too, nothing escapes, not the light not the dark, its all in one pot./You’re a man without a purpose – no sense or direction – it’s a living hell, this story doesn’t end well/no fucking fairy tale, happily ever after is just a children’s tale./At night while I cry just wishing I would die -but instead I get high – I get lost in the weed, and I let my heart bleed at the loss of my seed. And that’s why I cry.

I miss my baby girl, and all the joy that she brought, rewind the hands of time a different mother is sought./She never stepped to the plate reneging on the deal,/ I’m a do everything – I’m a hold shit down, you focus on healin’./ You a Fool nigga, a fuckin’ sucka too, she just got ova on you./ You Michael Keaton ass nigga – Mr Mom type shit, she left you holding the bag, tell your story to the dicks, when they come calling./ Steady fallin’, please somebody catch me now you calling collect, bustin’ plays for lawyer fare, and commissary./Singing Akon, “I’m locked; they won’t let me out” type shit./Konvicted in my cell with another nigga ain’t that a bitch, Thoughts of Incarcerated Brotha shit. And that’s why I cry!

Michael Clay
DOC #A533-044

Categories: Michael Clay, poems

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