All this chaos you created, like a contagion you conveyed.
You cherish cunning and deceit, as you claimed.
Like a disease you spread your misfortunes and unsureness of the world that you lived in.
As a child I wished you were gone, as you beat me and belittled me until I bled.
This in your mind earned you your street cred, as you punished the people around you until you fled.
From the burdens and blunders that you dread, but dare declare an empty reply with that.'' Your sorry''.
All this worry and woe, tiptoeing around you- oh, how I must have misjudged you when you muttered,'' your sorry.''
Oh the worries cultivated a collection of complications, that piled up, needing a lorry to carry them around.
No, I won't shed a single tear from fear or pity, as I wish you were gone.
But it's okay for you to utter your hollow, 'Your sorry.''
Giovanni Antonio Canal
of the famed waterway mall
Canaletto,Venice born&bred
panoramas thereof enhanced his 'street cred'
I have no idea what you just said.
I read it all, then I read what I read;
I played it several times in my head.
I thought I followed, but I lost the thread.
Not always the sharpest tool in the shed,
sometimes I feel like my brain’s a bit dead,
a brain-borne illness that’s starting to spread.
A minute ago… but now there’s no shred.
It seemed like a place to cautiously tread.
Maybe an accident? Seems like you bled?
That person you wrote about: are you still wed?
No, that was a poem written by Fred.
Consuming Soup’s part of my daily bread;
creative juices flow when you are fed,
but after reading, I’m empty instead.
Saying the wrong thing just fills me with dread.
Thoughtful, deep comments might give me street cred,
or some pithy maxim, but wisdom just fled.
See, I ain't got nothing; ignorance pled.
I have no idea what you just said.
Signed, a spondee respondent, “Awesome!” ahead.
A seismic surge is gathering pace, propelling a wave
Of multi faces many creeds, diverse street cred.
From public also of private ed' facets shimmer
Thoughts Intense myriad humankind immense.'
Mainstream channels pour out scorn, early morning
To midday lies take form, pushing into night time TV
And radio, dangerous anti-vaxers rabid foes..'
Yet when the millions gather wherever? One fact is so '
But You'll hear it from them never ! No all points bulletin
On the crazy folk that have escaped those penitentiary yokes
Or from their social workers..' I find it so scary.)
Cause this means the protesters (must be sane.')
If You'd consider if fairly.? And in the main !
I've got 99 Dalmatians
99 problems
But a b###h ain't 1
Are simply Black or White
99 shade's of grey
Luckily I can't count to over a 100
Otherwise id have 101
Come from 8 miles away
Wrong side of the tracks
No street cred
Get stage fright
Battle getting it up
Can only spit while flipping burgers
Got 99 dog's but not a single G
calling me dog back
Tried 99 times but still no b###h
hollering back at me neither
Got no litter , got no glitter ,
got no bling , got not paper
Self proclaimed
Fresh Prince of Dead-Air
Cnr 99th street 101
And if 1 of you wants to buy a puppy
forward me your digits after the show
And I'll have 98 problems
But 99 ain't 1
B orn again,from above
R everes his one(&only) love
I n England,proudly raised and bred
A forties child...enough said !
N ovel verse...his 'street cred'
His name is Mr. Phire,
but he insist you call him R. Syn
He's a torch for hire,
if you need something set ablaze,
something smoking
Make the right down payment;
and have a full gas can, flick foolproof plan
If you need five-alarm action ...
yeah, R. Syn is the best ashes delivery man
So, there is no need for a heartless heater;
the barrel cold, bullet indifference of a plastic gun
Mr. Phire is a passionate pyre thrill seeker,
he sure loves having some Fahrenheit funeral fun
When it comes to pyrotechnics,
he's the Spark Vader of demolition
There's nothing he can't destroy,
he'll scorch all of your competition
R. Syn for hire
be his fiery street cred calling card lit boast
Get in acetylene touch with him,
if you want something turned to burnt toast
But right now, he's presently indisposed
at an undisclosed penal facility
He's currently planning an accelerant daring escape caper
Waiting for a rookie guard to permit him
unsupervised use of contraband matches and toilet paper
This poem was originally posted on 10-14-16
— Romantic Warrior
You lost all credibility in the hood,
now seen as a fake ghetto fraud
Done let your word become worthless,
spat upon as being no good
In the ghetto,
only thing worst next to being dead,
is to have yourself zero street cred
You get treated like just another poser,
another hip wannabe
Getting stamped as an establishment loser,
a phony square is all we cool people see
With zero street cred
in the ghetto,
you're just a walking dead
Cloned image of the man,
think and talk like the oppressor
Smirk and smile like a modern day slaver,
believing you got power in your hand
Higher education 'ho decreed you as a race professor,
but how much money did you have to pay her?
You got zero street cred,
no respect given up by me
Absolutely zero street cred ... same sentiment
echoed by all of my homies
B orn again,from above
R everes his one(&only) love
I n England,proudly raised and bred
A forties child...enough said !
N ovel verse...his 'street cred'
re-post inspired by both SO &Kims contest
B orn again,from above
R everes his one(&only) love
I n England,proudly raised and bred
A forties child...enough said !
N ovel verse...his 'street cred'
WHAT'S HE LIKE
B orn again,from above
R everes his one(&only) love
I n England,proudly raised and bred
A forties child...enough said !
N ovel verse...his 'street cred'
re-post inspired by Constance contest
His name is Mr. Phire,
but he insist you call him R. Syn
He's a torch for hire,
if you need something set ablaze,
something smoking
Make the right down payment;
and have a full gas can, flick foolproof plan
If you need five-alarm action ...
yeah, R. Syn is the best ashes delivery man
So, there is no need for a heartless heater;
the barrel cold, bullet indifference of a plastic gun
Mr. Phire is a passionate pyre thrill seeker,
he sure loves having some Fahrenheit funeral fun
When it comes to pyrotechnics,
he's the Spark Vader of demolition
There's nothing he can't destroy,
he'll scorch all of your competition
R. Syn for hire
be his fiery street cred calling card lit boast
Get in acetylene touch with him,
if you want something turned to burnt toast
But right now, he's presently indisposed
at an undisclosed penal facility
He's currently planning an accelerant daring escape caper
Waiting for a rookie guard to permit him
unsupervised use of contraband matches and toilet paper
A terminal always comes to us
wherever we are in life's pathway
it can't be escaped no matter what
faced head on or else we stray
There was a time in my life
when thoughts were doom and gloom
no social activity withy no confidence
future looked to have little bloom
This I climbed out from
by taking in hand my pen
finding social correspondence
lifting negativity up from my den
Then confidence started to come
feeling sure better days ahead
looking back painful but essential
now feeling real street cred
Still feel inadequate at times
but remind myself these times past
be sure life has many lessons
growth comes if you hold fast
Convince me Im not in this alone
no matter what it looks like, outta
sight outta mind the light overcomes
the darkness, convince me that your
everything I want in a woman
forget street cred and who's the hardest, convince me
that them other
women I experienced was famine
and you're my harvest, convince me that you're in love
with my God and he's the only way we'll make it together
convince me that the spirit moves you
convince me it'll be a lost blessing
if I ever lost you, convince me...
that Im not wastig my time convince me that you're
worth all of mine
convince me that all of my love should be yourz, show me
that your love is worth fighting for, convince me that
you're everything I been so patiently waiting for, so if
you're ready convince me that I'll be a fool if I let you
walk out that door...
Houses on parade
Guards to civilisation
A great divide between man and space
Escapism opposed to reality
Sentinels stand at either end of street
Neighbourhood watch
Dangerous tongues gossip
Prepare for another onslaught
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