Feel Me (Part One)

I want you to feel me.
-But I don't think you feel me-
So I,
want you to feel me.

Like Langston's motto,
"As I live and learn,
Is dig and be dug in return."

So I wanna be dug in return.

Somethin' like,
words are to die for,
and I'm digging my grave already.
I wanna mark those words
so that that they be set in stone.
On my tombstone, ready.
With a pull so strong,
you can't help but dig me.

So grab your shovel,
and plow through my linguistic rubble.

Trouble you to explore my vernacular.
Take your poetic minds back to a- time,
When I rep,
you rep,
we rep on stage.
Reminiscing about that "real deal" love,
to which my words pertain.

In exchange,
I'll recieve those Oohs, Aahs, and claps.
Cuz I'm taking you back.
Back.
Back.

And I want you to feel me.

Feel me like that "Love Jones" shit.
Is that a smile of me put on your face child?

Of course it is,
but lets not force this shit.

Cuz when I spit,
I flow.
Period.
No tampons.
Just pads.
The ones in which my pens write in.
Overnight in-
to the morning.

I'm yawing,
with my hand on that paper.
Producing something of a rhythmical compostion.
Spoken and written.
Appealing to your senses.
Smell, hear, touch, taste, and vision.

Smell the aroma,
that "stankonya"
3000 times ova.

And just because you don't hear my words,
Imma take this dialectic dick,
and fuck wat you heard.

You touched yet?
Well let me touch you.

Serve you my words as a grammatical aphrodisiac.
Just to have you realize your eyes are bigger than your stomach.
I.e. your mouth is bigger than your brain,
so I speak for you.

But I want you to feel me.

Feel me as if I'm that throbbing in your pants for a phat ass.
Or that, one in your panties for a tight chest.

I'm try'na make your soul clap.
I wanna make your heart smile.
I'm try'na leave you with no other choice but to turn back that dial
-on your watch.
To the beginning of this poem,

Cuz now I'm gone.....