Getting by with a Nail Clipper

poetry., Spirit and In-Spirit-ation


So imma explain this title a lil bit: basically the default all-purpose tool is a Swiss Army knife, but what if where u at, all to be found is a nail clipper? getting by with a nail clipper is conquering odds, in the face of opponents having machetes and advantages, feel me? Using all your god-given talents and finding a security in your own person-only one gon be with u from beginning to end beside The Almighty…Aight.

Getting By with a Nail Clipper

cant get caught up on personal hangups
like hangnails on pantyhose
making runs cant ruin God’s Master plan
sweep aside my emotion to stand
even though i love that man
hard to swallow cod liver oil a similar test
each heave that i breathe breath
i must fight on this journey
younger cousins lookin at me
so i better hurry
towards the path less travelled
and traverse the rugged road of knowing self
beating away small minded tradition
stepping, bringing dreams into fruition
cuz my elders have watered well
the roots of this branch of the family tree
okra, corn, and purple hull peas have feed my body
and love fed my soul
and i till the soil back into a ground of pure gold
vitamin-rich, seeds got plenty chance to grow
sunshine, wind, and rain Lord protect it from the snow
i keep the weed from my lips and liquors from my liver
may the Divine smile on me, raise me above the nigger
nigger, nigger template not my lane
erect my temple on a rock away from the whipping waves
so by the second that my heartbeat stops, the impact that i’ve made will not be forgot.

file around the nail til its smooth,
keep it pushin
so i can make it do what it do.
R. Charles would be proud, been raised a little in Georgia,
so i understand the country euphoria
of shrimp grits, double dutch, and a Cadillac on D’s.
Light poles and pine trees.
Skint knees, church fans, and butter pecan ice cream
sweet iced tea, birthday money, quilts and thunderstorms
Travel I may but the South is where my head lay
in gentle comfort of the lap of my mother
the Mason-Dixon line her waist
Cotton buds her hair and sunshine her face.
It’s nothing sweeter still
than knowing I lived life trill.

Two Cents, anyone?

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