Rikoshay

[trap.]

"We make ourselves heard"



RIKOSHAY
We make ourselves heard, modest or blatant.
When the animus starts, we channel this art that’s both modern and ancient.
The expression of dichotomous statements
conveyed through verbal confession and bodily language.
Full throttle or languid, staccato in cadence,
or harmonized with charm applied to melodic arrangements.
Makes no difference if it’s impromptu creation
or reciting mottos verbatim.
We make ourselves heard,
shoutin out from the mountain tops, to the basins
of every metropolis wasteland, where hopes hinge on lottos and patience.
Regardless if you're a role model of sainthood
or a wayward persona non-grata acquaintance.
From –
the popular patrons
of places where everybody knows your name and name droppers are shameless,
to –
the brown paper bag bottling vagrants hitting rock bottom in basements
and everyone, on up to the astronauts in the spaceships.
Including –
the truth seekers caught in the matrix.
The adventurous nomads stranded in backwater locations.
Even –
the privileged few prodigal aces with pot-o-gold tastes
living in the luxurious lap of a tropic oasis.
We make ourselves heard!
Making more than just some minor modifications,
we topple the basic fundamentals upon which the basis
of established reality is built from elaborate fallacy and dramatization.
Until this façade is negated,
we make ourselves heard.

ViS
We're heard like...
The whispers of ghosts of the past...
Or the Holocaust victims that choked on the gas...
The AIDs sufferer dying in an African slum...
Or his kid brother laughing...
Taught to fall in love with the crack of a gun...
Or the poet's pen scribing to make a stanza unknown to men...
Like a nation gasping...
When the Panther's raised their gloved hands on the podium...
Or the blast left after Hiroshima's cloud...
And the cheers that followed...my GOD they were proud...
Like the screams of civil un-rest in Asia...
Or the dying breath of a friend...
That it doesn't take much to savor...
Or the blare of the police blowing their siren...
As they pull ANOTHER innocent kid to throw in the asylum...
Or the lonely orphan crying; ripped from their home...
Like the millions that hailed Hitler like drones...
Perhaps we're quiet...and you hear violence instead...
And while it's NOT golden, sometimes silence is best...

emurgencee
What were we thinking when we ran to feast?
Left pressed against walls, in this land of beast.
For I was never deemed free…
Only crammed for peace.
So when knowledge wore rough, we’d bland it’s sheet.
Scrambling to secure originality, but the tangent’s weak.
How will we ever find the truth, if the answer’s bleak?
I’m just as straight as the fate where you would strand beliefs.
So if this is the last supper, then I plan to eat.
Finely etched my mind’s slate, plate canned with peace.
Digesting scrappy seconds, I took a hand at greed.
I’ll manually push this envelope and demand we speak.
For It’s a fight for the cause, until we stand elite.
My family won’t succumb to the light, they just man the leak.
To rust the foundation, where the fountain’s meek.
But I’ll reach out to the world, who’d practice sound release.
I never claimed to be your God, but I’m down to preach.

((?))
As far as carnality & faith goes, the hungry have adored,
The image where my halo is hung around the horns,
Stand tall? I had nil say so – I’ve rummaged on all fours,
Until happening on the stained clothes & blood from my own corpse,
Hence: The inception – my words suspend the deception,
That if speaking in coded language whatever’s said is pretentious,
I can dispel what is mentioned of oratory elites:
Those lacking auditory-like means CAN be lords of the sheep,
If you imagine a human, handicapped with his herd,
In front of a troop steadily standing deferred,
Who then blast through him when commanded the word,
Don’t tell me that mute man’s plasma can not be heard,
He MADE them listen as a cadaver by spiking,
His blood’s decibel level until it shattered their psyches,
And for the span of their lives he’d leave an impression,
That without syllables he would speak for the deadened,
So, I AM that mute man – who shrieks with his eyes,
I AM the deaf man – hearing screams from inside,
I AM the blind man – who’s seeing in silence,
I am ALL of them, heard because I bleed when I write…

Focus
Auditory sensors updated, the Truth beating your eardrum/
God's glory ensures that I'm heard and freedom is nearing//
This group of extremists tickling your tympanic membrane/
Time to recoup, SMO seen as a living symphonic template//
And you wonder why men hate, but fake with flattering lips/
I'm smattering wits of hypocrites who lust at battering hips//
But still your opinions won't change my life's chain of events/
A Just Will ensure my winnings aren't for trife fame or pretense//
Eternal Gain is reasoned, God spoke and we make the choice/
Infernal Flame is seething, I woke and became His voice//
I can't create myself but I determine what path I follow/
Violent predate pry hell, I'm discerning the wrath I bottle//
Caged rage but the glass is hollow, which became my disposition/
Prayed grace filled my cup, switched and I chose His postion//
SMO is perturb-able to weak fears, Retake par, delve this Word/
We're a proverbial Q-tip to clean ears, We Make Ourselves Heard//

Judge The Decyple
My arts a shot in the dark, the proverbial bread and butter
that feeds the soul while eating a hole in the head of lovers
the minute dilutes the stain yet the covers drained of its godliness
because cleanliness has now gotten confused with opulence
watch the fences, for as soon as the carpet baggers mention peace
my fists are getting raised till their frivolous ways are made beds for the centipedes
forget cloudy days, every heads beneath a steel sky of burden
so realize in real time, take the real lies and discern them
from the truth burning vigil amidst groves of slit throats
who walk around like you or I, smiling ear to ear with a stern face and a clipped pulse
this house of horrors sits close to serenities shore
but the ebb and flow of the tides seem to roll back now more than ever before
this enemy's more of a friend to me than I let it seem,
I guess that would deem the argument null and void
but remember theres more to the picture than whats seen in the celluloid

H. Notik
It's either loss of blood or loss of breath
That causes me to carve my chest'n mark my stress…
The lark infest, soaring over thoughts of the mind
The thoughts that are mine?
Are hidden deep inside my heart locked in a bind
In a locket of time, the locksmith of rhyme…
When I sit'n ponder scripture - lost within time.
Soon I realized, the words that I write…
Disturbing the night.
Will never be heard in a world that is "right"
But wait I'ma herb and I'm white?
….riiiiiiiiight
My words paint pictures allowing sermons to cite,
Learn to recite - wisdom, stop, listen…
I now inhale the system and Vermin of life

Wait. It's burning inside…

I now exhale sims… fueled by knowledge of self
Leaping out of my cage - my mind'n soul begin
to entwine rhyme, divine vibes…follow me within…
on coattails of an outburst, neglecting poverty'n sin.
No! never.

Please people - pay the tender…
A quarter an ear and a dollar for the whole agenda
Of knowledge prepared to strike scholars in tears
If they don't remember the bombs, that dive into piers…
Well I'll remind the minors while the elders cower in fear…
Don't stride behind common thoughts often taught
With pen an pad pick a pocket of the simple profit,
Atop my writers block…still my words inflict the topic
Rolling off the tongues of people bound by tear's n frowns
I fight to be heard - YOU WILL HEAR MY SOUND HERE AND NOW!







----------------------------

Solo


Title: I Give Love A Bad Name


We’re yelling again.
Yelling?
Well, she’s emphatically pelting my back with a healthy attack.
She’s got a well practiced whine and an axe to grind.
If she hopes to overwhelm me with facts she’s welcome to hack.
I’m immune to shouting so I tune her out.
Her points are compelling and accurate. She tells it exact
but the wounds she carves will soon be scars.
And, though I seldom extract it,
when I seek revenge I delve with a hatchet.
Subtle and slick, I cut to the quick.
But I don’t let loose for fear that, if I should swing away,
she won’t recover.
I know enough words
yet, somehow, I don’t always know the right thing to say.
I’m bone-head stubborn
and so, we suffer.
Maybe I didn’t display my emotions every single day,
but I know, in one term or another,
I’ve shown I love her.

She’s telling the truth.
I’m selling lies.
It’s televised by my body language and crass demeanor.
She’s crying again.
Why do I try to defend my side of the fence
when her grass is greener?
I feel a kinship with denial
and I’m a master at turning an inch into a mile.
That is, afterall, how our bed became this vast arena.
We both know she’s right
but I force us to spend another lonely night
clutching the gap between us.
The toll is paid.
I roll away and pull the covers up
over my shoulder blade.
The cold invades but we mustn’t touch.

I’m dwelling in limbo, I live to conceal me.
With no regard, I stole a heart…she would have given it freely.
It pulls apart my soul to shards, and I can’t lift this unwieldy
weight from my chest.
My spine is weak.
If I suffocate in regret it’s fine with me.
I don’t have the strength to confess or mind to speak
and I’m ill prepared to face the effects of finally
disclosing my traitorous theft.
Unkind indeed.
The hands of this filthy thief are painted red.
Why do I enter a not-guilty plea with strangled breath
while my unspoken soliloquy explains the rest?
My most atrocious act of villainy remains unsaid;
in her heart she still believes.
I hang my head.
As though awaiting a guillotine and painless death.
Where did I find the skill to weave this tangled web?

With no regard, I stole a heart
because my own was cold ‘n hard.