Cross My Heart and Hope to Write


Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Ferno and More Art

A combination of various, seemingly uninterconnected images into one. I took the symbol of a question park and incorporated into it an image of a noose. The noose is decorated to resemble a candy-cane, and I placed a black barb at the end to further make it resemble a fishing hook. Lastly, the dot beneath is modeled to look like a bursting bubble.   

Something new in store for you, kiddos. Up until now, we have seen my art, short stories, photography, essays, even short film. But here we have something totally different: Rap lyrics. That's right, you heard correctly, rap lyrics. I have only written a handful of these things in my day. Dabbling, you know. This particular piece came about on a dare. I work with a gentleman named Dontay who is an up-and-coming rapper. I first noticed his talent after hearing him subtly rapping under his breath at work one day. He raps under the name "Ferno" (a reference to Dante's Inferno) and I must admit, he's pretty incredible. For a taste, here's a link: Ferno & S. Dubz - Get Cream. He is the first gentleman who "tares it up". He's got several videos on YouTube that I highly recommend. Anyhow, he challenged me to write a rap for him and this was the result. As you can probably guess from the title, its about him. Now, I must point out, my rap style is a bit wonky and is somewhat hard for others to get down. But, alas, I must perform it to explain, and that sure as hell ain't happening! So enjoy the rap and the art that accompanies it, and let me know what you think.

The edges of this sketch have been carefully burned (as you can see to the right of the image). I was inspired after watching rain drip from my fingers. The spindly design also invokes spider silk. 


Talking to himself, he can always be seen,
conniving and striving for a shallow dream,
but he digs deeper,
into places unseen.
Inside himself, he finds the strength to achieve,
he ever understood to be real;
the right to exist,
and for the world to know what he feels;
that there's a mind
that lies
behind these eyes,
and to recognize the fight that comes with life. 
While other’s tot pistols and deal their dope,
he gets high and shoots up with the words he wrote
and arrested with a concealed weapon
that he keeps cocked and ready to blast with a passion.
Never before seen,
never before conceived;
energy that burns holes in the souls of the industry.
Yet, we see
just another solemn man on the street,
talking to himself,
but could we ever believe?

His soul bleeds
And we wear the stains.
Sip from the same cup
He refills with his pain,
But we can’t taste
Of the beauty contained,
As we wash our clothes of
The colors he paints

June moonlight
illuminates an note pad, 
its 4am
and there’s no sound but his chest.
As it pounds,   
a beat that he writes to in the dark,
his eyes closed,
but his pen continues to mark
up the paper.
He tares off another sheet
and starts again clean.
His frustration mounts,
but his heart still beats.
So he scribbles another line,
which only he can read,
as it’s a race between his pen
and the thoughts he can’t free,
and the page he tore off flutters down to the floor,
where it joins another heap of a hundred or more.
Some are torn,
some are crumpled,
some are folded in two,
and there are a thousands of them scattered around the room.
Some believe that the Bible was written this way,
but there’s a difference between what we believe and what we say,
and he struggles with this flaw everyday,
between what his heart tells him
and how fast he can write on the page

His soul bleeds
And we wear the stains.
Sip from the same cup
He refills with his pain,
But we can’t taste
Of the beauty contained,
As we wash our clothes of
The colors he paints.

His tongue flicks ghostly under his breath,
rhyming words mostly, senses are deaf
to those that take time to stare and oppress
the expression of his emotions, under a blanket of breath.
And they stomp out the sound
until it sticks to their shoes,
and they carry it around
until it becomes a nuisance,
banging on their eardrums,
concocting new songs
with a beat that spreads like cookie crumbs
to the corners of their hearts,
where it curls up and dies,
like they forced the beat back
in his own, and he cries
tears that fall like a bow on violin strings,
until it explodes into violent things.
A cacophony,
a symphony
for the sympathy
that was never granted to me.
Now you see
that the man that you pass on the street 
with his hands in his pockets and his tongue in his cheek
was the man that you see
with the mic in his hand,
bathed in light,
on the stage where he stands
inside his mind,
but all you understand
is a man with no means
to succeed,
but everyone has the right to dream.
His heart sings,
But all we hear is muffled sighs.
We are blind to the tears
That well in his eyes.
We can shake his hands,
But are numb to their touch.
We could listen a little closer,
But it will never be enough.

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