I Will Never Stop Loving H.E.R.

wordsoftakumi:

a poem for Hip-Hop

Kendrick Lamar splits open monsters
and fights on the virtue that to get stronger, 
you only go to battle with armies
that are capable of stampede.
Those who tread lightly are not worthy 
of your warpath.

Lupe Fiasco ties his tongue into a
cat’s cradle and whispers sweet everythings
into the ears of middle schoolers who
by the end of the night will know
the brutality of the Audubon Ballroom

Talib Kweli lectures behind a podium with
Howard Zinn to the ears of college-somethings
about the nature of history:
everyone is a writer
but the best authors do not pen the past:
only the victorious do.

A columnist in the New York Daily said that Hip Hop emphasizes
"the crudest materialism in which the ultimate goal
is money and it did not matter how one got it.”

Jay-Z sits on the steps of his former housing project with Oprah Winfrey,
then shakes the hand of the most powerful man of the free world.
He and Beyonce are American royalty
and their bloodlines are unconcerned with its
humble origins.

50 Cent demonstrates a contrasting irony
as his money grows up to be worth
his namesake tenfold and then some.

Sean Combs drapes the resting place
of The Notorious B.I.G. in jewels as
he whispers to his best friend,
Don’t worry, I made us enough money
that it’ll follow me into the afterlife.
We’ll be more than taken care of when we meet.

Republican senate member Chris McDaniel
was quoted to say that Hip-Hop is a culture that
"values rap and destruction of community values
more than it does poetry.”

Kanye West and Nina Simone
swing dance in an orchard
as the farmers peddle their strange fruit.

Tupac Shakur figures out the equation for immortality.
It is 6 albums, 8 movies,
and an understanding that
power moves create fame;
influential motion crafts legacy.

Andre 3000 writes a song about the
devastating separation between himself and his love.
The world cannot help but pulse to it.
Andre knowing this, before the second chorus
in Hey Ya!, laments:
"y’all don’t wanna hear me.
You just wanna dance.”

Across the internet, Hip Hop is not regarded as a musical genre.
Criticized for lack of originality, vapid lyrics, and a monotonous sound,
the overwhelming statement is that Hip-Hop has nothing to do with music.

The RZA and Just Blaze 
sit behind monitors and soundboards
as they begin to summon the spirits of 
Bill Withers, Gladys Knight and Curtis Mayfield
into the studio.

Hip-Hop has nothing to do with music.

Nicki Minaj simpers and then ferociously
spits at kings as they watch the queen conquer.
Female named hurricanes kill more
than their male counterparts.

Hip-Hop has nothing to do with music.

The beat slam rumbles the speakers of your
'98 Toyota Camry and transforms these
3 minutes and 32 seconds
into a parade etched into a dream that grips your shoulders
and the only way to release the tension that rides on top of you
is to take these songs as an instruction,
it was written like a manual.

Hip-Hop has everything to do with everything.

She doesn’t need to be defended,
        doesn’t need to explain herself,
        doesn’t need your permission.

Hip-Hop walks with the hypocrisies and the benedictions
of every great art form in our existence.

You only notice her because of
how fresh her hips swing,
how zealous her disciples are,
how scared you get when she uses those big words in conversation,
and you beg her, 

please,
please,
talk to me in a way that I can understand.

And you turn up the radio and feel safe.

I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with ones who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2am, wild eyed and sleepless and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.

Clementine Von Radics (via ladymegg)

From As Often as Miracles, available here!