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The Working Man

"The thing is, I never want to work a day in my life." (Me).
“Now, that is what you get from your father.” (Mother).
That was from a conversation with the woman I call Mother; I was convincing her that I will never be a lawyer. I told her I’d rather be a naturist and live technology free than be a lawyer.

Many of you don’t know what I do with my life other than this; and that’s how it should be, but for the sake of this piece, I’ll let you into something about me.
I’m a twenty one year old law student who refuses to be a lawyer.
Why study something if you have no interest in it? At college I studied film, television, journalism and radio. My first year of university I studied radio production because at that time I wanted to be a radio presenter (no idea why).
I passed the year and all was well but the course was ridiculously boring and they forever misunderstood the content I was producing.

So one day, whilst walking to the cinema with my friend (although that is irrelevant) I stopped and said “I’m going to change course, I’m bored of radio.”
When I said it, I didn’t have in mind anything else that I wanted to do, I just didn’t want to do radio.
After a thirty minute conversation (approximately), it was decided that I’d do law seeing as nothing else at university interested me.

There were other courses I could have done and I would have had an easier time doing them. But I have always told myself and people around me that I’d rather fail at something challenging than succeed at something easy (quite deep).

I’m forever reminded that as the eldest of four and the most successful (academically) in the family, I should set a good example for my siblings. I agree, I should set a “good” example (whatever “good” means). I’m always telling “Mother” that I believe I’m already setting a good example for my siblings, but just in case they haven’t clicked on yet, I’ll make it clear.

Dear siblings,
If this is my last verse.
If I die before I have the chance to whisper these words to you.
Or before the block of writers strikes my mind.
This will be one of the most precious things I’ll ever share with you.
I’ve lived a life but my life is not yet lived. And in my time in this place, I have not yet found the code to life. But, I have realised that nothing is too hard to grasp and everything can be simplified. And the things we usually perceive to be the biggest challenges, are normally really simple.
The example which I see as “good” is what I will give to you, pay attention.
Find what makes you, your happiest. And do it. Also, don’t ever do anything for money.
Don’t get me wrong, you should be paid and I hope you all make more money than I ever will but just don’t make money the centrepiece of what you decide to do.

I don’t know what I’ll become. When asked what I want to be, I always say “A man, with independent thought.”

Maybe I’m already that.

Maybe I’ve already become what I’ve always wanted to be.

I want to do so many things which are unrelated, so I don’t actually think I could be something specific (as in, having a title).

I don’t want to be, I just want to do.

But the world loves titles.


I’m a poet.

Or at least I think I am.



I’ve got some issues in my psyche and me losing my mind is likely.
I’m Full of good intentions but I always do the wrong thing although I share birthday with Spike Lee.

It’s highly likely that me being normal couldn’t be anything from the farthest.
Because as good as it gets, I’ll always be a troubled artist regardless.
And one day I’ll become accustomed to the culture of the fatherless fathers doing the utmost for our sons and our daughters.
Correcting the sins of our fathers because they couldn’t finish what they started.

No more innocence.
I was taught by some militants.
Light skin but no pretty boy, this is the crooked teeth poet that talks with so much sibilance.
And I’m so bored of my ambiance. 
So listen mother, unlike Mr Jean, I’ll be gone.
Til forever.
Just let me finish my next semester.
So I can alleviate some pressure and I don’t even want to do what I learn.
I just want to live like Robert Nesta.

To tell you the truth, there’s no real message in this writing.
I’m just sharing where my mind goes when there’s a little dim lighting.
But I won’t take it too deep, just know there’s some issues that I’m fighting.
And inside I’m crying because this is ridiculously honest.
I miss the feeling of being lonely, give me a chance and I’ll sit alone in any forest.
I never thought I would need help from any doctor or nurse.
But I probably do seeing as I wrote this on the night of my 21st.
I was thinking about my future, my present and my fears that I’ve developed over the years.
And my biggest fear is money.
For that to be a fear is quite funny as it’s true that we all want a sizable amount to our name.
But when I do get money, will I ever write the same?
Will I ever get consumed and just forever chase the fame?
We pretend it’s just paper but money changes everything and money replaces stress.
Why else would Van Dam be making snow angels and Usain Bolt be in a dress?
I was just writing as free as I have ever wrote before and I thought.
This world was never made for comfort.
This world was never made for safety.
This world was never made to be a friend to the needy.
This world was never made to put clothes on your back and food on your table.
This world was never made to be a giving place.
This world was never made to be heaven, nirvana or any other sort of paradise.
But this world was made to test you and shake you.
Slap you up, twist you up, trip you up and break you. 
But when you conquer the army that’s waiting for you at birth, then the world will never forsake you.
When you fulfil your purpose and spill your blood for what you believe in, then the world will never forget you.

Is it really that hard to write history?
Will my generation ever take advice if it isn’t delivered lyrically? 
I hope you see me as a young refugee because these words are so sweet but I swear they’re softly killing me.
And it’s bittersweet how it’s finally getting through to me, I’m just realising now that I’m holding some responsibility.

I’m normally surrounded by some ugly Gentiles and pretty sinners.
Pure evil and corrupt good can be confusing to beginners.
But it’s been my life for so long that I see righteous and ungodliness are slowly becoming synonymous.
And it eminent for me to mention it in my element without making it too obvious.
But obviously it’s plain to see what’s really real to me.
With this gift I can do anything you see but when it’s personal, it’s like a therapy for me.
Normally, I try to uplift, try to make you think and help you make sense.
So I stab my heart for an art that’s never paid me a pence. 
Forget the rover,  big house and tall fence. 
I do this to push the boundaries of this culture. 
Hoping that the youth hear me and dream a little bolder.

I’ve been meaning to call my father since January.
To kick start a communication with my old man so we can start being merry.
But I think it’s very scary to open up and let near me.
I’ll tell him what I’m up to like “yeah I’m at uni, I hope I don’t blow it. And oh yeah I’m poet and U.O.E.N.O it. 
And to you tell you the truth, I’m not sure if I actually need you but if I do, I’m never going to show it.”
I found out I have a 4 year old sister recently.
I know my mum won’t like this one. 
Another uncomfortable peice from her bastard son.
Saying whatever he feels with that bastard tongue. 
She tells me to be careful or might get stung.
I hope she’s wrong.

The Poet

I’m a poet.
Or at least I think I am.

I wrote my first peice when I was fourteen, I was in year ten. I remember, we had an anthology, I think it was put together by Simon Armitage and we, the class would analyse poems from the anthology a few times a week.
One Saturday whilst going about my chore of hoovering the house, it came to me.
I had never experienced such feeling before, it was really weird. 
Just words, random but they all made sense somehow, they actually formed sentences which made sense. 
I took my phone out and started writing immediately.
About five minutes later, I had this ten or so line thing which I guess they call a poem. 
The Biology Of Water. 
That was the title and at that point it was the Holy Grail, the Mecca, the Nirvana of all things poetry. 
You’re probably really interested to know the details of the poem and if you may ever have the chance to read it or whatever and the answer is no.
I lost it and I don’t remember it enough to make sense of it.
It was about the way simple water can kill and heal, cleanse us and make us filthy.
Also, a few hurricanes got a mention; Ivan, Katrina and I can’t remember the rest, but they did add to the metaphor.
Anyway, I’m waffling.

Some point the next week I had an English literature lesson, which I actually hated (ironic). My mentally towards this specific lesson was different, I was excited as I wrote my own words which could possibly be in an anthology one day.
“Miss! Miss Thompson, I wrote this thing, it’s like a poem I guess. When are we like going to like share them with the class or something?”
“Never! You idiot. As if I’d let you stand here and read your so called poem full of struggle!” 
Now, my recollection of what I said is pretty accurate but I totally exaggerated Miss Thompson’s response; although I captured the essence of what she was saying. She basically said we don’t do that in this lesson.
I actually felt really disappointed, which was weird as I never liked writing but the feeling of the whole experience was something new and to not have a chance to share it was a big deal to me at that time

I’m a poet.
Or at least I think I am.

I know I’m an artist, pretty sure about that.
I’m obsessive about my poetry, my art. I spend from hours to months working on one line of a poem just so it feels right.
That’s why I think I’m an artist, I work from feeling when it comes to my poetry, no logic or formula and no censorship - just feeling.
That’s why these post on ANALOGY are very slow, during what is normally a one month gap between uploads, I’m writing.
This gap has been three months and I have been writing a lot but only certain things can go up there and I have to feel when it’s right. 
An example of my obsessive nature towards this is that one day in July two thousand and thirteen, I began to work on a peice; up to this day I only have two lines written - I guess the feeling isn’t there yet.

I dropped sensitivity about self image and what others think of me as a person years ago, although I’m interested in what people think of me, I’m not sensitive to the outcome.
But I am seriously sensitive about my poetry, my art.
I feel something - the feeling I got when I wrote The Biology Of Water and I’m compelled to write. Whatever comes out of my brain when writing, I share with you, the people, the world. 
Now, if you don’t like it, I feel a way about that. It’s your human right to like and dislike whatever you like but it’s also my right to dislike your disliking of what I write.
The thing is, I don’t give you anything, I share with you something which is so important and personal to me, something which is purely from my heart.
Imagine you were homeless and I walked by you all the time pretending I don’t see you because the loose change I do have normally goes on breakfast, you know, Starbucks or something.
Then one Tuesday, I walk by you then turn back and offer you a room at my place for free - obviously, as it’s clear you have no money.
So, I offer you somewhere to stay and actually a place where you can feel what it’s like to live again. And you say yes. Cool.
Thursday comes and you tell me how horrible my place is, decorated poorly and ask why I eat so much trans fat. You spit on my lip and go back on the street to be ignored by me again because the loose change I do have normally goes on breakfast, you know, Starbucks or something.
That’s how it feels when you don’t like it; extremely outrageous, I know but very honest.
And in all honesty it doesn’t really matter if you do like it, it’s a very weird thing; this poetry, this art.

I’m a poet.
Or at least I think I am.

The thirteenth of February two thousand and thirteen, whilst watching the Superbowl. I decided that I’d take this seriously, I decided that this poetry, this art is something natural to me.
I realised that the feeling I get from writing is like no other - there are some other feelings I’ve experienced which are like no other and writing is one of them.
It’s the highest expression of myself.
I’m quite internal and this is my main outlet.
I decided that I want to live my life working on new variations of the twenty six letters, you know, putting them together and stuff. Those twenty six letters will then make twenty six words.
That’s all I have, just twenty six letters for my poetry, my art.




The sky is falling and Adele is calling, I’m Mr. Craig in an Aston Martin.
No clutch control, this guy is stalling.
I had a revelation this morning.
My life is moving sideways.
I’m moving faster than highways.
and my mind is set on the wrong thing I should be focusing on my grades.
And my heart is torn.
I need to cleanse my soul, I need to be reborn.
I feel like I’m losing grace.
I’m just saving face.
I’m in a distant place.
And my heart is racing.
And this fire is blazing.
I feel like plaguing the planet with no vaccination.
But I’m moving a little different these days, I just I should tell you that.
And any evidence of any obstacle or any setback.
Will get sent back to where it came from.
“But chill Ty’rone!”
“Ok mum!”
This is suicide! With a play gun.
This is do or die with Swiss Army knives and a chainsaw.
So come Jason.
Wait! Who you running?
But wait! Who you chasing?
You see, our hearts are moving in parallels but our minds are way too adjacent.
I can show you hell on this savage journey.
I can show that fire and brimstone could never burn me.
Pain in the highest form could never hurt me.
But surely.
You wonder where I get this reckless perspective.
And the voice of a Maasai warrior that has been neglected.
In a foreign galaxy and despised by its citezens, he’s been rejected.
Well, this is loud screams, but they’re silent.
A love song, but it’s violent.
This a dark journey in the coldest winter all the way to my minds asylum.
Am I innocent or militant?
Am I lazy or diligent?
Are you safe around hard working men or more secure with Dillinger?
Anyway, the devil is gully creeping tonight, I just urge you to stay vigilant.

- Ty’rone

My Skin Heals Well

Every lash, whip.
Belt buckle, zip.
Bruise, cut.
Nose bleed and bust lip.
Every tear and mark.
Scream, bark.
Bump and swell.
My skin heals well.
Every fight and fright.
Day, night.
Noon and midnight.
My skin heals well.
Every slap and punch.
Kick, push.
Grapple and crunch.
My skin heals well.
Every wire and lead.
Pain, belief.
Scab and bleed.
My skin heals well.
Every scratch and pinch.
Run, chase.
Jump and flinch.
My skin heals well.
Dust and dirt.
Blood, squirt.
Pain and hurt.
My skin heals well.

Once a man, twice a child.
Savage jungles, but I know what’s wild.
In the fire I lied.
And in the fire I smiled.
And in that burning bush, I burned those sticks.
Now the ash settles.
I am Phoenix.
I am Phoenix.
I am Phoenix.
Forget structures, buildings.
Mortar and bricks.
Fire burns them all.
I am..

You don’t know the amount of times I’ve fell.
So, whether heaven or hell.
Just remember.
My skin heals well.

- Ty’rone


You must go through memories on a daily basis.
Then touch heads to see how the face is.
Count footsteps to find these places.
I can’t lie, I miss your black tea and your warm embraces.
Open your vision and witness this metamorphosism.
You don’t have vision but I’ve got the mission.
Complete this and we can get back to living.
I’m in a different nation so when I vacate for a vacation.
Don’t touch my face, don’t use your imagination.
I just wish you could see me and feel that sensation.
If your eyes are the windows to your soul.
Then Granny, how dark is yours?
It might be good because you remember me before I sinned, you don’t even see any of my flaws.
You don’t see the scars, the tears, the secrets behind these doors.
Inside my mind.
I find darkness like I’m blind.
As you.
Today we spoke and you told me of things you went through.
In a way we share the same story and it’s ironic that we share the same point of view.
But you may never see the shine of your first grandson.
You may never see any of your grandchildren dancing.
I often wonder why it’s like this but I don’t have the answer.
You said I’ve already been there and done it so its time to buy the T-shirt.
And believe me, when she’s was hearing that situation, boy was she hurt.
Never mind, rest your mind, because even the most precious rose was born from dirt.
She said she’s got 2 boys in England, me and my uncle.
I look at him like Phil.
Fresh Prince to the city, I’ll make room for him in my will.
But it’s funny how I still find it hard to discuss issues with my family that are real.
I guess I’m just reaching for a feel.
Reaching out hoping that someone can help me heal.
But how can I express my problems like you’re sitting pretty?
It’s a shame how you can’t see the city.
It’s a pity that I consider my issues, you make them look so silly.
You won’t be able to read this so I wonder if you can hear the emotion.
Life passes you by daily and you just go through the motions.
You said that’s just life and you have live with it.
I don’t know how you sit with it or deal with it.
To think of it.
It makes sick.
Just know, if you’re ever in the ICU.
I’ll be there, you won’t see me, ICU.
I know we’re separated by seas but I’ll fly through.
For you.
When all is said and done I guess we’re both blind.
You don’t see what outside, I don’t see what’s inside.
I don’t see the future but you know it don’t ya?
I see with my eyes but you see with your mind.
That’s a beautiful place, no space, no time.
You’ll see me when our souls are called up yonder.
Until then, we can day dream.
Because even Stevie wonders.

- Ty’rone

The Vent.

What do you say to the young man who thinks he’s 2 years behind his age?
Then what do you say when he tells you he hasn’t been eating properly and been rationing for days?
And he believes minimum wage equals maximum rage.
Whilst talking his eyes are watering like he’s peeling what goes into stuffing and compliments sage.
That’s an onion my young gun.
He’s reminiscing of the times him and his boys were out screaming “I’m on one”.
And if squares were numbered he’d look at you and say “I’m on one”
Serious times now, where’s all the fun gone?
He just wants you to understand his stance.
That he’s taken a chance.
With the devil to dance.
Now he’s two stepping without a weapon.
The heat is on and it’s got him sweating.
Future falling before his eye and it’s got him fretting.
Got him betting that he followed a misdirection.
But billboards remind him that when you started from the bottom there’s only one direction.
Empty pockets for the summers.
You can hear his heart beat louder than drummers.
Might need a discovery like Christopher Columbus because he’s in a city full of ranges and hummers.
But is that even motivation?
Guys balling out in G55s with private registrations?
Nope, that’s humiliation.
He goes home to listen to Wretch, you know punctuation, followed by some honest underdog Wale tracks on rotation.
He goes for walks to keep his mind in the clouds.
Spoken word? How absurd, he wants to perform to the crowds.
So he’s working with theses verbs and these nouns knowing damn well they don’t care, they just want the clowns.
He was zoned out so he bumped into some guy then noticed another was staring at him on the sly looking mean.
Can’t lie he had a nice suit and his trim was looking clean but it didn’t change the fact the guy was on the verge going green.
He rushed over like “that guy is homeless, he’s a fiend. This is his only income, why didn’t you take the magazine?”
I told him I’ve got bigger issues than a big issue.
Walk my footprints, what size are you?
I’m 10 and a half, that’s a biggish shoe.
But it’s ok for you.
Versace loafers looking like Biggie’s shoe.
The man soon realised there’s deeper things in his life from just one look in his eyes he sees love, hate and despise.
I still see the ghost and hear voice of my dead cousin Royce.
If you want to go further, then ay that’s your choice.
I remember those moments.
Wish I could go back and reload it, set a camera for focus, take a picture and fold it.
Hold it. Forever, however, whatever I choose to endeavour will be different from him but I won’t forget you see I’ll always remember.
When you had a white gold chain and a Lexus, you were only eighteen.
And told me you’ll buy me a flying car when I’m fourteen.
Told me about girls and introduced me to Malice and Pusha T.
When’s the last time you heard you like this?
Watching Freddy Got Fingered, I miss those times.
They were just bliss.
It’s weird how things never stay the same.
Players change, different rules but still the same game.
No segregation, new slaves still wear the same chains.
Road to riches, good or bad we use the same lane.
They made sure I stayed good, I guess they seen I was intelligent.
It’s evil out here so to they look at me like I’m heaven sent but I’m hell bent.
On providing a place my mother can reside in.
So never mind him.
If he seems ignorant he’s just trying, he’s just trying, he’s just trying.
And I’d be lying if I said the pressure doesn’t get to me sometimes.
And I’d be lying if I said this empty bank account doesn’t make me consider some crimes.
Maybe I should follow the footsteps and the drawn lines of the one I always wanted to be.
Prison was a factor I didn’t see but freedom or incarceration didn’t even bother me.
I’d happily accept his respect, that would calm my sanity.
And it’s a struggle with my girl because I’d give her the world but if my mind takes me again I’d probably ruin her world.
It’s nasty how I’ve got these trust issues but she gave me her trust that I chose to misuse.
I refuse to lose and let some next dude step in my shoes.
So I do my best, I don’t want no more relationship blues.
My cousin asked me if I’m faithful.
I was like, I’ll practice monogamy as long as I’m able.
He said “you can’t, once a R******d always a R******d.”
And that’s so painful, it’s shameful.
What example are we setting for the young except the common black label?
And they tell me foster kids never get this far, and wonder how I even bear these scars.
In the light that’s shines brighter than all these stars.
I swear put this message above any lifestyle of jewels and foreign cars, smoking Cuban cigars and a weekly four girl ménage.
And I know bigger men have died from the things that I’ve survived.
Only twenty but I’ve lived about nineteen lives.
I’m quiet about it so this revolution will not be televised.
So look into the eyes of the young and stigmatised and tell them about hell because they’ve already found their paradise.
And I’m plotting dots on the board with my own pair of dice.
They’re like, she done that to you, how could you then save her life?
Boy if that was me, I’d watch her as she helplessly dies.
But I done it for a purpose that you’ll soon realise.
I’m desensitised by things laid before me.
So if you listen to my story it might get a little gory.
My childhood consisted of no toys but I’ve still got a story.
Have you ever had to stand naked in the cold at five years old until you finish every bit of food in the bowl?
Well this is some shit you’ll never know.
They suggested counselling but I made the counsellor cry.
They kept telling me that I’d really need help one day and I was like “why?”
For some stranger to tell me about myself and evaluate my mental health?
And to come across like they care but that’s how they gain they’re wealth.
That’s how they brain wash youth by telling them a new truth.
Because they know everyone believe in qualifications and a fitted suit.
That’s why I don’t care about who you are or whatever.
I treat barristers the same way I treat the beggar.
Because a three piece doesn’t mean that you’re clever and a degree really doesn’t mean that you’re better.
So you’ll see two mermaids riding one unicorn before you see me fail or bow to a man in uniform.
True to form they think their power is above the norm when the fluorescent jacket is on, the one that’s greener than the lawn.
So when they haven’t got their baton, cuffs or vest.
I wonder how many officers make citizens arrests.
A lot of truth is hidden in humour so I suggest you digest whatever I say in jest.
This is so honest it’s hurting.
The more you read, the more you learn and writing this I am learning.
That the only thing in life that is certain is that things are uncertain.
Now you can see the diversity of the black boy at university.
Go from love letters to this?
I promise there’s more to me.
Life is just a violent mystery, we only learn from things written in history.
Take a seat and welcome to the meet and greet.
A chance to see my inner demons.
Nightmares of a runaway slave can’t stop me dreaming.
I’m unchained now like Django Freeman.
Look at daddy’s seaman.

- Ty’rone

The Trial: Exhibit A.

When I was writing this.
On the radio - I think the station was choice, matter of fact it was Kiss.
There was a song playing all day that was making my ears sick.
It was Mr. Robin Thicke, you know, he had the lick.
Now, for a second, you might think these are blurred rhymes.
But this is the only way I know blurred lines.
Forget blue violets and red roses.
Analyse the equation of white powder and brown noses.
The true reason for addiction, nobody knows it.
Lined up on the looking glass, I watch as she blows it.
How the hell did I end up here?
Away from freedom now surrounded by fear.
Away from the churches to watching feinds shift gear.
I guess I, walked out of heaven right into the devil’s lair.
I want you to, picture this as the wild.
Young single mother, one child.
Seemed better overseas so before he walked, little man flies.
To the world of opportunity but opportunity is on demise.
So now he’s a witness to the sick magician’s crimes.
Observing the disappearance of a number of lines.
You know, now you see me now you don’t.
I’ve seen feigns disappear when when they can’t repay their loan.
You know, now you see me now you don’t.
The true reason why, I may never know this but I can only speak on all the things that I have noticed.
It’s like they take a sniff, you know that quick whiff to catch a little focus.
Or maybe the injection is a coping mechanism to combat the rejection that’s been placed upon them.
But I don’t really know so I can only pray for them.
I got a few family members that will sniff their way through the next couple festive Decembers.
Because they chose the pipe life over the wife and child life and their former selves nobody remembers.
I blame Thatcher and that pagan Ronald Reagan.
I mean, you guys are evil, you guys are like satan.
From the project of the projects could you really project this as a result? Was it that blatant?
Whatever it is, it was foul, it was flagrant.
Feinds on that Coco Chanel - no fragrance.
Why don’t we smell the aroma of the baking soda that seeps from the can pipe of empty cola.
Do you know all the things that I have seen?
All the raids that I’ve been in?
The violent scenes that I’ve seen, all the crack cooked around me - you should have seen all the science I have seen.
The amount of times I’ve watched a man turn fiegn.
On that Charlie so he’s winning like Sheen.
I seen some things that are just not meant for young pupils.
Like a man collapse, foaming at the mouth after a few pills.
There’s another side to the selling and the Lamborghini visioning.
On the flip there’s the fiegns and hell that they’re living in.
There’s another side the dealers big house picturing.
On the flips the feign probably hasn’t even got a pot to be pissing in.
All you see is rappers on your hi-def talking about wrapping up coke and whipping work in the Pyrex it’s mindless.
Behaviour, the youth don’t have a saviour they’re just living on a wish and a prayer.
Lord have mercy, it’s such a pity.
The product can make something pretty, sour and sickly.
Just look what the brown did to Whitney.


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