Mr. Young

You're a hard hearted little boy

with a harsh and critical attitude

You whip your little yellow tongue

snapping out small, subtle insults

and poison the air

You'd like to think we're not similar

but, brother we are.

Though a canyon separates our cultures

we are bound by nature,

mother fucker.

Frankly, I don't like you much

and that's what I like about you

That you could care less and never more

keeping your nose up

while you look down

You dress as sharply as you speak

and sometimes just as colorfully

But I hear you mostly talk about

"Weak shit" and "rude shit"

and that is you

I heard you bragging about yourself

how you stay away from outer influence

yet you criticize how your brothers live

and offer your best advice

behind their backs (hypocrite)

I appreciate your existence

the gift of lessons you bring

that I was sort-of once like you

except taller, bigger,

and grateful of most things

Little

Was he ever one to do his homework?

He wasn't, at least not often.

He would scrape over the pages with his eyes

jumble up the symbols and signs

read over and over the instruction and lines

then droop low into a sulk and softly sigh,

"I don't want to do this."

However, inside his little head

ringing about in his vast little mind

a harsher sound could be heard

a scream, a shout, a curse, a plea

"I don't know how to do this! 

How am I supposed to do this?

Please, Please! Help me!"

I Am Defender

Against the throws of war

I am the defender of my heart.

Poisoned arrows with sharpened tips

soar with accusations dripping down their silvery lips 

ready to puncture my every pride.

But I am the defender of my heart.

When lovers complete the idea of me 

with incomplete ideas of me, 

a hollow shell of my actuality 

is animated 

and mocks me like a cartooned parody.

I am the defender.

A patient heart is a determined heart,

not waiting, but patient. 

Indeed wading, patiently, through thick 

and sticky scores of sluts, tramps,

and hooligans, all waiting with bows and arrows in hand.

Here I stand, the shield, the man,

the only defender of my heart. 

The blade sheathed in me is sharp and quiet, 

can reduce a loose tongue to a 

removed one, and will pierce the ears of 

any fortunate enough to hear what truth I speak, 

or stab, for my blade runs deep.

And it must. Because in me, my soul has trust. 

I seek within, beyond the moths and rust, 

between the unsettled dust, 

beneath the copper crust. 

I am the defender.

When chicks play games and lick the names 

of the many men they've fucked and bent, 

I write the boards and bar my chords 

pressing ink to page while burning sage.

Needless to say, the nights are solitary 

in my home. 

I thrive by candle light, 

fire helps me write, 

the flame insist that much burns inside of me. 

The pain, the shame, the 

misery, all melt off like calories.

I exercise the defender in my heart.

I have friends in many places, some wear 

two, three, four, and five faces. 

Some are copy cats and rely on traces 

to shape their lives and like glass blown vases 

are full of hot air. 

Speak your peace or let your words rest peacefully, 

because only deeds can be 

resurrected successfully, 

and the groundsman gave the keys to me, 

I run the graveyard shift in to the early morning. 

Would you believe how many thoughts are buried in this cemetery? 

Six feet beneath actions, respectfully. 

Where is the love you ask? 

Well where do I start? Begin where it ends.

I am the defender of my heart. 

Contenders

I see what you're doing

You've found something new

You're learning how to flip your craft on its ear

and explore new territory.

And I'm proud of you.

I'm proud for you.

I'm inspired.

I'm envious.

It's so easy for you to share your work

You can just send a photo and wah-lah.

You're getting the credit you deserve.

You're getting up and out on the streets

littering the walls with your creation.

It's brave, it really is.

Watching you has helped me expose my fears

and in that exposition my goals are revealed.

There is much I have to share.

There is much work I have to do.

We are very alike, yet so different.

We both want to succeed!

And I am proud of you for wanting that!

We are both contenders fighting a similar fight

in a world riddled with wars of varying nature.

I am doing my best to be a friend.

I am doing my best to grow.

There's so much I want to say,

so much anger and hypocrisy waiting to be exposed,

but things of that sort are better forgiven and half-forgotten.

Because no matter how angry I get, or how jealous I become,

I love you, I care about you, I've got your back.

This is my gift to you.

It's small, but like the passion you have in craft

and in creating envy, 

it grows.