Who is more at fault, the parent who leaves or the parent who cries?

• I sat down with the lowest of expectations
• Recalling from my mind a fabled dream that has not since passed
• I’m trying, grinning, seeping through the crap and sludge to get to it.
• I can see it now
• The lights
• Grey tinted with blue and black
• I walk along the streets alone at night
• Unlike NY LA gently slumbers in the night
• The freeways humming softly like the murmur of a weak heartbeat
• I walk above the sidewalks, my feet skip with the breeze and beat
• The scene replays  as my cold and charred fingers take notes on my phone
• I walk on top of the hills, the lights of the valley bounce off my face
• Blue and Grey radiate below like giant radio waves of lace
• I wish I could write about this,
• Capture this moment,
• As F Scott called it, one of the perfect, fleeting moments most seldom realize
• I am a lucky one, I experience them all...

But what does it mean?

Reality is bullshit when your life is a dream

Mean, fiend, I don't give a fuck

I give my life to Uncle Sam so he can take off my cuffs.

The rhythm and the rhyme, some might call it hip hop

I call it the eyewitness account of the doped up

Strange, callous, and Un foreseen, that so called hip hop can unite black and white while still making green

I don't even like the bullshit lyrics I only like the beats

Seldom is Nas fear of death reproduced in the city that never sleeps

So I mind my time, I mind myself, its dangerous for a kid from the suburbs to get opinions from somebody else.

Yet the music flows through us and with its weight it reminds

The whole country that black lives matter and there is more than race that divides.
 

So here I am walking around with the camera angle behind me

The hip hop drops in the background as I distract myself

Looking for the beat as I ignore my math problems

This won't rhyme nor should it

My stream of consciousness is not a stream that flows rhythmically

It's violent and sudden like the guitar lick of the beat

It goes in and out as I go in and out of work

Rhyming ideas as the prophets rhymed lies

I still believe in God despite evangelical alibis

If only I had a cigarette

I hate smoking but it does look cool

All the good writers smoked

None of them drank water like I do

I can just see myself now

A black and white portrait

The cigarette held like a finely tuned pen

The grey smoke lashing across my face

Smoke that floats like my head in the clouds,

I have to end this poem...

The road on which my life began

The road was damp but I walked outside anyway

My head was heavy, hungover, but the cool wind set a soothing sensation over me.

I turn on my phone, the music plays as I run. The droplets of water caressing my face.

 I shouldn't be so happy. The Blues in my ear seeps into my heart.

I stop, panting for breath.

It was all simple a second ago yet now I hung to the side of the road heaving.

Cars whisk past fast- forward.

It was all simple yet I'm lost. I turned back, I couldn't see my house.

I looked ahead, the fog consuming my vision.

Each breath was a year, each drop of water a wasted moment.

"Well I can't go back, and I can't stay here."

I look ahead. My hair ran grey and black from the fog and rain.

I let out one last breath.

I walk forward, into...

To think it has been a decade since a bomb exploded in England, with its debris only grazing the coasts of America in the form of "AM". A decade since a group of English teenagers cut through the garbage of mid-noughties post punk with an album as catchy as it is honest. Guitar riffs that attack like machine gun fire and lyrics that provide the clarity in a pre-constructed concept of a small bar in northern England.

The Artic Monkeys immortal "Whatever People Say I Am, That's what I'm Not" first bolted out of the UK as the then quickest selling album in British history. The charm and grit of their first two singles "Fake Tales of San Francisco" and "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" opened the doors for the public at large to buy and then celebrate their debut album. Interwoven amongst this chaotic poetry of the dullness and quirks of attending an...