Thoughts of Mediocricy

Educated, book-smart, 5-year degree graduated, but I have thoughts of mediocricy.
I never mind which way the wind blows, a trend flows from generation through class, but I still rock my chain to remind me I was once part of those I see.
Conceal the soft metal, but I want to swing it with every stride that I walk;
Knowing my ancestors wore similar with a lackluster and forced not to talk.
Complex - minded, I see answers to problems that do not exist.
Advanced Algebra, my XY is said to be predisposed, but my Sum is derived from the square root of His image.
Pause as I explain how anti-homophobic I am.
Prove my anti-slur rhetoric can persist amongst the four letter nouns and verbs spewing sewage.
I want to stunt just like the next man, but my ego gets a boost when the new foams I bought are styro, sparking an inquisitive son to be a pyro, winning him first place at the scientific fair.
My hair. Course, thick, wavy but touch not.
She said, "Take that wave cap off, it's a bit much." Knot tired, fitted over, this ain't no trend! This is how I picked her up, this is my lifestyle believed!
Five times each direction, the boars hair de-curls every forty-five degrees until a back at square one is achieved.
Then the poly-nylon is back at it, over covering my line up, suffocating my hair to continue to recreate the choppy sea.
I say to my son, "Nah don't do it like that, go like this, and they gonna flock to you like this."
Despite that, I raised him right, he wants to open a book, he wants to read and write.
He keeps me focused, grounded when I want to act like how I feel,
He mirrors my moves, mediocricy is not an option. My thoughts is how I feel and how I feel is what once was real.

Arch1tekt™

Sounds of Arthur's Music

Close your eyes and visualize the ivory keys dancing in one chord.
Hear the trumpet singing in a falsetto wave.
The notes are in sync, composed by a genius envisioned on each stave.
With the clapping of each cymbal hand;
Shoe tapping and finger snapping are ignored by the bass as it hums after the plucking of each strand.
See the impromptu melodies appear on manuscript after each note whimsically flirt in a battuta.
Allow the pezzo to take it course as it see fit;
Sharp or short accent, tutti or limelight lit one in acapella, but please wait for the tacet.
Let your fingers air play arpeggios as the movements mimic the sound.
While Miles Davis and Horns circulating round as the record plays "Down".

Arch1tekt™

Words

I was barely twelve months and she was introduced as years to my future.
Coos, grunts and cries, she was advanced beyond my capacity.
We started out with playdates combining lettered blocks and constructing a primary colored basic building structure.
We grew closer as I began to mimic the sounds of her names she solidified her place in my fantasy.

Bang was the first I called when I wanted to see her, but Ma wanted to teach me, tell me what I was doing wrong when she never answered my call.
I cried and got frustrated, but the connection is what pushed one foot before the other everytime I would fall.
It wasn't my fault I didn't know how to pronounce her name.
Matter of fact, it was cupid's mis-match mark and failure to aim.

The attention of others she began to crave.
Older gentleman, smoother, suave, and able to understand how she worked and behave.
The easy routes I chose later only satisfied temporary laspes of ignorance to entertain a fraction of what words was...
She was mulit-lingual and being courted by many facets of life.
Unfulfilled but with a light bulb of inspiration, I began to understand her strife.

I neglected her.
I chose to short sound her when I should have listened and adapted.
Emphasize and alter my tone instead of hood speech contracted.

Like two opposites, she was drawn to me, pen and a paper, I inked my plan.
Adding and subtracting, I learned how to unlock her derivative and stroke her ego with a cursive of my hand.

She started to come back around, picking up where we left off;
But with additional syllables, I caressed her Rs with the roll of my tounge, tasting every consonant and vowel from South to North.

Just like old times, she let me bring a friend to the mix.
Mixing and matching, we swinging meanings.  A love connection in the making, a constructed bliss.

She's happy as long as I can keep being creative.
Document our escapades, publish the non-explicit, and alter my speech to sound foreign or native.

I was built for this relationship, acquainted kinship, love affair.
Yo puedo passer mon styles quasi aurae of the air.
(I can (Spanish) switch up my (French) styles like the breeze (Latin) of the air. (English))

Arch1tekt™