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04.23.14 4237
Zoom leaveyouapen:

I am. 
"Why would you want to be a victim when you could be a survivor?"I am. I am. I am.
I am more than a bruise.I am more than a victim.I am more than stains of blood.
I am. I am. I am.
I am a collapsing wind.I am a tender blizzard.I am a letter never sent.
I am. I am. I am.
I am this giant star inside trillions of tiny galaxies.I am this pair of wolf eyes glowing inside darkness.I am this stupid prayer asking to burn inside fields of innocence.
I am. I am. I am.
I am tired of wearing all these shades of blue.I am tired of wandering while wondering whether I’m doing this right.I am tired from dancing with these devils on my back.
I am. I am. I am.
I am fickle enough to love with urgency, but not immediately.I am slow and steady as the birth of a butterfly.I am a geyser filled with rose petals and doves.
I am. I am. I am.
I am this selfless wall of words;an art of openness thatyou can only learnfrom soft budding flowers.
I now have bouquets of forget me not flowersgrowing in the palms of my hands; if I touchmy eyes and wave these hands abovepoisoned soils littered with silent ink stainschoking from the soft stillness of coming hometo an empty apartment – I will plantremembrances to those whose rootsburn with sickly nectars of a fallen oak treevictimized by tragedies, upon tragedies, upon tragedies.
I am. I am. I am.
I am more than a cryptic tragedy.I do not leave the curtains closed anymoreto avoid gazes from creatures lookingthrough the window; I hear the voicesof glass soldiers chanting for freedom,and there have been days where I havestared, stopped and stared – frozenin a notion of memory, of pain, of momentsand moments, and moments, and more momentsof the silence that rape seems to put on his wearer’s.
The project of becoming better can sometimesseem like a hidden houseguest waitingto be fed and visited, or sometimes it’s likea not so hidden houseguest sprawledon my couch in unwashed boxer briefs,running up my cable bill with on demand pornwhile smoking all my pot, and reassuring methat it’s only for another few more days.
In the end, I am a garden of bamboo sticksthat bends when a storm comes, resumingup-right integrity and accommodating flexibility.I refuse to drink these poisoned soils.
I will find myself on a Sunday morningwith the stillness of a sunrise, a cupof green tea, a back yard tire swing,and I will write something simply for me;I will write the language of this skin,and I am a flurry of doves flying for freedom.
I am not a victim anymore, nor a survivor,but instead I am. I am. I am. 
- G. Lucas Kolthof

leaveyouapen:

I am. 

"Why would you want to be a victim when you could be a survivor?"

I am. I am. I am.

I am more than a bruise.
I am more than a victim.
I am more than stains of blood.

I am. I am. I am.

I am a collapsing wind.
I am a tender blizzard.
I am a letter never sent.

I am. I am. I am.

I am this giant star inside trillions of tiny galaxies.
I am this pair of wolf eyes glowing inside darkness.
I am this stupid prayer asking to burn inside fields of innocence.

I am. I am. I am.

I am tired of wearing all these shades of blue.
I am tired of wandering while wondering whether I’m doing this right.
I am tired from dancing with these devils on my back.

I am. I am. I am.

I am fickle enough to love with urgency, but not immediately.
I am slow and steady as the birth of a butterfly.
I am a geyser filled with rose petals and doves.

I am. I am. I am.

I am this selfless wall of words;
an art of openness that
you can only learn
from soft budding flowers.

I now have bouquets of forget me not flowers
growing in the palms of my hands; if I touch
my eyes and wave these hands above
poisoned soils littered with silent ink stains
choking from the soft stillness of coming home
to an empty apartment – I will plant
remembrances to those whose roots
burn with sickly nectars of a fallen oak tree
victimized by tragedies, upon tragedies, upon tragedies.

I am. I am. I am.

I am more than a cryptic tragedy.
I do not leave the curtains closed anymore
to avoid gazes from creatures looking
through the window; I hear the voices
of glass soldiers chanting for freedom,
and there have been days where I have
stared, stopped and stared – frozen
in a notion of memory, of pain, of moments
and moments, and moments, and more moments
of the silence that rape seems to put on his wearer’s.

The project of becoming better can sometimes
seem like a hidden houseguest waiting
to be fed and visited, or sometimes it’s like
a not so hidden houseguest sprawled
on my couch in unwashed boxer briefs,
running up my cable bill with on demand porn
while smoking all my pot, and reassuring me
that it’s only for another few more days.

In the end, I am a garden of bamboo sticks
that bends when a storm comes, resuming
up-right integrity and accommodating flexibility.
I refuse to drink these poisoned soils.

I will find myself on a Sunday morning
with the stillness of a sunrise, a cup
of green tea, a back yard tire swing,
and I will write something simply for me;
I will write the language of this skin,
and I am a flurry of doves flying for freedom.

I am not a victim anymore, nor a survivor,
but instead I am. I am. I am. 

- G. Lucas Kolthof

04.22.14 63
04.22.14 18522
Why waste time? It doesn’t carry over to the next day. It doesn’t earn interest. Take every day and every moment, and make something of it. Make something positive.

— – Elvis de Leon

04.22.14 0
We are inhabitants of the blood moon owners of that very moment in time where the universe aligns
And the jaguar swallows the moon
We will
Cause we are
The chosen
Lets take sips from the nile
Before we return to the mothership
Disguised as pyramids
Channel the gods
Signal polaris
Ask the ancestors
To emerge from the stardust
And lead me
To a place where the royals coexist
Speak the ancient language
And i can feel the vibration of ancients

— Cleopatra Jones

04.21.14 0
On the soap box is where we reside,
Where thoughts collide,
with the mind of strange eyes,
In the belly of a red submarine,
On tuesday nights we unite under one dream,
Bonded by the words and the rhythm of the 3rd,
The perfect prescription for a musical addiction,
We’re just trying to unify the hood,
Under one common good,
I am just a representative of this life we live,
A verbally armed well dressed vagabond,
The personification of inspiration,
I give off that positive vibration like perspiration,
We only create and innovate,
While others follow and recycle,
We live by the codes of an unwritten bible,
The message cannot be bought,
The game cannot be told,
You must find out on your own,
If you are a rock or a stone.

— M.Blake

04.21.14 1
Zoom 










We live on soap boxesProfess our eulogy in red rooms decorated with the eyes of strangersThis is where we meetPlan world domination with diction This is our depiction of what life would look like if only given the right prescriptionI amOnly a messengerVagabond of Miami city streetsI’m collecting ideas like cans in a shopping basketRecycle my thoughtsConsume my messagesAnd create something beautiful with your understandingThis is where… We create or Die

By Percival Jordan

We live on soap boxes
Profess our eulogy in red rooms decorated with the eyes of strangers
This is where we meet
Plan world domination with diction 
This is our depiction of what life would look like if only given the right prescription
I am
Only a messenger
Vagabond of Miami city streets
I’m collecting ideas like cans in a shopping basket
Recycle my thoughts
Consume my messages
And create something beautiful with your understanding
This is where… We create or Die

By Percival Jordan

04.20.14 0
can’t give you all the details, but i just had the best convo with Thing 1 and Thing 2 about their strengths and weakness. how it’s their responsibility to help their brother with his weaknesses because “steel sharpens steel”. afterwards they came and gave me a hug, rubbing their faces against mine and each others. I asked what they were doing. they said “steel sharpens steel!”

— Bomani Armah

04.19.14 0

you got to encounter dusty rhodes to get to the american dream …

so i think so superfly: jimmy snuka

that i can swandive in your thought process, scrappa

jeff hardy make your table shatter

so scrap the swanton bomb shrapnel

as i’m climbing up the ladder

the crowd chanting for a sabu writer from the rafters

cursive barbwire

rob van dam! big show spit like great muta

each metaphor pricks like a pile of thumbtacks

for the love of mankind, you better off hugging cactus, jack

demonstrate that fortitude

that make vince mcmahon get off his high horse

to come to you to congratulate

the game, though, the game …

will try to berate

manipulate

cerebrally character assassinate

that’s triple hate

like triple h

try to hit you off their pedigree

counter that and react with that stone cold philosophy

stun ‘em, stun ‘em, stone cold stun ‘em

run’ em, done ‘em like goldberg running

a jobber like brooklyn brawler

a strategic scholar as focused as the undertaker’s situp

headline gravitas

for ted dibiase dollars

"raw": a wrestling prompt lyric (not a poem) by realproperlike

04.18.14 0

devoutfashion:

Aninha

04.18.14 1779
Also, here is a music video starring some members of the Vagabond team, created by our soundguy Ates, from JJ’s band Symbols 
04.18.14 0
Zoom
04.18.14 0

pitchfork:

Check out our Top 25 picks for this year’s Record Store Day.

04.18.14 21158
I was shooting for world peace,
Until I ran out out of bullets,
I put my arms down,
And returned to the underground,
To put some time in the mines,
To help free enslaved minds,
Starting with the freedom of mine,
So I can return to the front line,
There’s a war going on outside,
You can run but you can’t hide,
Sooner or later you have to pick a side.

Marcus Blake

Rebelmpire.com

04.18.14 1
I’ve learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow. I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he-she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life. I’ve learned that making a living is not the same thing as making a life. I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw some things back. I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one. I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I’ve learned that I still have a lot to.

— Frankie Morales

04.18.14 0