Writer's Vibe

Where Literary Get It's Groove On!






Dark corridors leading to never ending stair case,

She sees no way out of her dismay.

Her inner turmoil fills the length of the Nile River,

Motherhood, womanhood, sisterhood, childhood.

Working and slaving for corporate America,

Causes her to sink herself deep under the bubbles in the tub.

Longing to loose herself inside herself,

Creating in her thoughts of a portal to the Bermuda Triangle.

Never having to face responsibilities head on,

No one taught her to be a child and womanhood is a mystery.

Being raised by a drug addict too far gone to remember childbirth,

Poppa was unknown; he couldaí been any flavaí of the week.

She grew up to marry for that is what she saw on television as the way.

Children was said to prove she was a mature woman.

A woman desired by a man,

No one told her she would marry just to be his punching bag,

And give birth to Spawnís children.

Dark corridors leading to never ending stair case,

She sees no way out of her dismay.

Causes her to sink herself deep under the bubbles in the tub,

Longing to lose herself inside herself.

Creating in her thoughts of a portal to the Bermuda Triangle,

Longing to lose herself inside herself.


Edited By: Kenya Mack






I Was Only 16

And Just Had a Son.

I Was Shot From Behind

With A 9mm, Then You

Stepped On Me After

Being Shot and Handcuffed.

You Call Me a Party Crasher,

I Call Myself Kevin Cedeno.


You All Shot of Us 11 Times

On The Jersey Turnpike

Because You Was Racially Profiling.

You Said We Tried To Run You Over.

3 Of 4 of Us Was Injured.

You Called In Self Defense,

We Call Ourselves Keyshon Moore, Leroy Grant,

Danny Reyes, Rayshawn Brown.


You Shot Me Four Times in the Back,

Once In the Chest, Once In the Palm

And Once In the Arm.

I Was 21 Years Old.

They Have the Nerve to Drag My Body

Down The Stairs While In a Body Bag.

You Called It a Box Cutter Attack,


I Call Myself Brennan King.


I Was Only 13.

In addition, you shot Me Dead on the Spot.

I Was an Honor Student,

Playing Cops & Robbers with My Friends.

(Now the Same Playground Is Named After Me)

You Called It Wrong Doing,

I Call Myself Nicholas Naquan Heyward Jr.


I Am 23, a Haitian Immigrant.

Both of You Killed Me.

You Said I Ran into You with a Knife and Stick,

But Witnesses Talk Differently.

You Are the Same Precinct That Murdered

Aswan Keyshawn Watson,

And Attacked Mourners At

Patrick Dorismond's Funeral.

You Call It an Attempted Assault,

I Call Myself Georgey Louisgone.


I Died In Your Custody;

In Your Precinct,

After Being Beaten and Tortured.

You Also Labeled Me as a Murder Suspect,

Of Murdering a Fellow Officer.

You Call It Wrongfully Arrested - Cop Killer

I Call Myself Earl Faison.


I Was 23 Years Old,

You Chased Me and Grabbed Me,

We Fell,

You Drew Your Gun And

Shot Me with A Loose Grip from Your Hand.

And You Said You Donít Remember,

Pulling the Trigger.

No One, But You

Told Your Fellow Officers That,

ďI Had To Shoot This Guy,

I Thought He Was Reaching.Ē

You Called It Accidental,

Now I Am Not Here.

Malcolm Ferguson.


All four Of You Shot Me,

19 Times Out Of 41,

Reaching For My Wallet.

Even Reloaded and Murdered

Me in Cold Blood.

You Called It Wrong Person

I Call Myself Amadao Diallo.


I Am 23, Father Of 2

My Friends Are 31 And 23.

You Shot Me 31 Times,

With 2 Full Mags.

You Shot Joseph Guzman 11 Times.

You Shot Trent Benefield 3 Times.

They Are Living but I Am Dead,

Before My Wedding.

By A 12 Year Veteran Detective.

You Call It Investigating Prostitution and Drug Use.

I Call Myself Sean Bell.


Police Brutality Is Still Here.

If We Donít Stand For

Nothing We Will Fall For Anything.

My Tears Will Flow Forever.

These Are Some of the Voices,

That Are Unheard.


Edited By: Kenya Mack





An Angelís Cry


If only someone would lend me their ears.

Iíve been silent for too long, while storing unshed tears.

Thatís polluting my spirit and drowning my soul

where emptiness has decided to create a growing hole;

where love has never lived, but always seems to die;

where tears build in eyes that can never seem to cry.

Some say that the eyes are windows to the soul,

but how can you see the soul through eyes that have grown cold?

Where emotions are just words, because the feelings no longer exist;

being trapped in a world where false supports always persists,

that they know how I feel, can relate, and understand;

and know what itís like to be an Angel lost in the Devilís land.

But, if only someone would just lend me their ears.

Iíve been silent for too long while running from powerful fears

that threaten my existence and control my life-

where death has cut open my heart as if it were a knife

leaving wounds so deep that they scar my soul.

Still, I patiently pray for the day I become whole,

filled with life, filled with love, filled with the desires of my heart

without the constant worries that my happiness will always fall apart.

Until the day my prayers are answered, I canít let life pass me by.

I canít question Godís will because itís wrong to ask him why-

although, Iíd like some answers from him, because Iím in need of the truth.

Like, what is my purpose in life, because I feel like Iím wasting my youth

by right now being scared to live, but also scared to die,

by my biggest fear being scared to fail, but just as strong- scared to try.

And being afraid that no one cares enough to listen to An Angelís Cry.


Written by:

 Jamila Johnson





The Entry


I've been writing, Ďn I'm at my 1000th page,

Because defining u takes as much time as it does space.

There's jusí not enough words or ways

For me to say not jusí wat u mean,

But how muchóyou're so many things.

In the hand of cards life dealt me, you're the queen.

The thorn-less rose in the garden of love I walked through.

Youíre the soft touch my sore mind, body, Ďn soul approves.

You're the explorer that beat the task of searchiní me.

My audience when I feel the urge to sing,

Even though I can't, you're my number one fan.

Like you're my first choice every time I wanna slow dance.

You're the eighth day of my week, a time for romance,

That ends wit me holdiní you like this paper holds my words.

All through the nite, Ďtil the page is ready to turn,

And bring a new day, a new page to think wití,

Defining u is hard, and I don't think I'll ever complete it.

Because wití every passiní second, wat u mean to me increases.

Written By: Kalvin Gray



Do You Think About Me?



Iím sitting here thinking about you, wondering if you think about me.

Needing, yearning, and longing for you; wanting you to come make us a reality.

As Iím sitting here thinking about you, waves of emotion rush over me.

Like the defenseless swimmer pulled under by the relentless undercurrents of the sea.

The sea being the insatiable desire I have and the growing love for you.

And like the defenseless swimmer, Iím lost in the feelings and emotions of the changes you send me through.

But still, I sit here in my room constantly thinking about you.

And Iím wondering if maybe once in a while you think about me too.

I lay awake in bed at night, wishing you were here.

Sometimes when I close my eyes I can feel you, but when I open them you arenít there.

I toss and turn as I lay alone all night in cold sheets.

My body aches for you as I imagine your hands caressing hardened peaks.

Peaks that long to be loved, long to be touched, and held captive in kisses from your lips.

Lips that unleashes a tongue so gentle it hurts as it searches for chocolate sips.

I see your face, your lips, your smile, and your eyes every time I close my eyes.

The wetness begins to seep through me, saturating in-between my thighs.

I yearn to know how it feels; to feel you feeling me when youíre inside me.

I quiver at the thought of the pleasurable pain of how good it hurts to be,

In your arms as we move each night; having you sometimes it feels like a dream.

Giving myself to you; having you have me as I cry out from loveís stream of happiness, of fulfillment, of pleasure and pain, of hurt as you wipe away each tear.

With each stroke you manage to give me more life, and each thrust take away each fear.

The moans and groans of a world unknown until you took possession of my heart.

My legs wonít spread for another man, but for you every night come apart.

Entangled in Ecstasy, Lost in Love, with your name being all I can say.

You call out my name; I gladly cum. You follow; Iíll lead the way.

With orgasms that last as long as the songs Iím playing in my mind.

Your eyes speak to me, telling me that I am yours and forever you are mine.

As you collapse, still inside me, weíre too exhausted to move.

If love making is a soul exchange, then that fact was just proved.

You are my soul mate; my twin in spirit. I knew from the beginning youíd be.

As we fall asleep in satisfaction, Iím secure with you holding me.

Now, I plus you and you plus me equals us; so we are a reality.

In love weíve fallen and donít want to get up. Iím down for you completely.

Just as I awake to tell you I love you, and to hear how much you love me.

My alarm clock is blaring. Iím dreaming again, still not knowing if you think about me.


Written by: Jamila Johnson




"Scribe To Survive"



I spill these verbs in vibrant color ink on notebook pages any given way.

I live in a physical and mental state where it rains everyday.

So I scribe to hide the pain of my skies being airbrushed gun shot gray.


I am a lonely ghetto prism, incapable of attracting the spectrum of the sun.

Only visions of rainbows I see is when teardrops mix with words causing the ink to run.

My pen's tip leaks for single mothers whose outcome on life is considered as bleak.

5 mouths 2 feed on one income is enough to make me pawn pussy to strangers in the street.


I would let my body be abused before I allow my kids to walk one step in my shoes.

I'm in this shit win or lose, like that lady that sings the blues.

I croon to an orange moon, hoping the sun will arise and cast upon my life a tangerine hue.


I'm a "Wino WriterĒ...

Rambling drunk thoughts with electricity cut off, scribing by the fire of my lighter.

Scribbling Hennessey prophecies and Remy Red revelations.

I ingest metaphoric margaritas and take shots of verbal vodka straight no chasiní.


My urban quill drips inebriated hieroglyphics two times above the lyrical limit.

I write for the hood and everybody strivin' to survive in it.

Muthafuckas doin' 5 to 10...get paroled and canít land a 9 to 5.

I pen for every blood vessel popped in frustration in the corners of incarcerated eyes.

My pencil point breaks for crack babies born addicted to the taste of destruction.

Refusing milk from a mothers breast...yearning for substances cooked on the tops of ovens.


I am the soundtrack of life for a homeless man who had everything, but fell short on his luck.

Every word I spit is reminiscent of the coins collected for beer in the bottom of his styrofoam cup.

Meaning I might not make too much (cents) at first, but in the end your gonna see the big picture.

I don't spend much time in the pulpit but I preach the gospel of forgotten ghetto scriptures.


The rains that Noah overcame ainít got shit on my life's hurricane.

Almost drowned in my sorrows until the day I became lyrically ordained.

Living proof that something beautiful can emerge from beneath the soil planted in the projects.

So, now I simply scribe to survive life and hope to touch a few lives in the process.


Written by: Roxie Carter


She Packs Me in Her Luggage



I am familiar to her; Safe,
warm, gentle, and understanding;

A voice that is calming; A wise soul who
listens beyond what is shared on the

I am a warm blanket in her coldest nights.
I am a hot cup of green tea in the times
where she feels most sad and vulnerable.

So, she packs me in her luggage
when she travels. Poems of mines
that define her life and help her
get through things. Or pieces of my
literature that make her smile or
inspire her to dream.

She loves Sacred Woman.
She packs this poem in her luggage
more than any other piece of mines.
She is empowered by that poem.

It describes to her just how sacred
she is. How important she is. How
beautiful she is.

I met Her at A Book Store is
one of her all-time favorites.

She dreams too
of meeting her soul mate
in a cafe while jazz is
playing lightly.

She's a romantic just the same,
so she'll hum some of the
poem, and call out my name
saying, ďYeah Christopher,
yeah man!Ē

Found on knotted napkins
and college-ruled paper consistently
in her purple suitcase is She Likes Poetry.

She approached me personally
after a poetry reading
and told me the poem was genius.

That it captures her love for poetry,
and why she is held captive by
the pictures I paint in that poem.


She will even come to a poetry
reading just to hear that poem.
She leaves right after I am done
with a huge smile on her face.

She has her own version of I Am A Poet.
She wrote it on a plane heading back
from Toronto, Canada where she first
heard me recite my version.

Herís rocks. It is just as much hip-hop
and be-bop as mines. It is composed of
the strongest visuals and prophetic lines.

I like her version better. She sent it to
me as an attachment to my email address.
Man, inspired pieces are the best!

She packs me in her luggage, especially my

slam poem Word Warrior. She's in love
with the words syllable sorcerer.

She's magnetized by the look
in my eyes when I'm possessed
by the flow of that poetic rhyme.

She requests it time after time.

When she's an old woman
and she's all out of frequent flier miles
Compiled in an old dresser will be
a book she put together for me.

Someone will find it and
it will be read at her funeral.

I will live on for eternity because
she found it in her heart to love my poetry.


Written by: Christopher D. Sims