Welecome To Dancing with Hathor and Kali
4. I am a Black Man (Black Man in Limbo) - Part 2
5. W.T.C. - Would Thou Cry10. What Christmas means to me
Baleful Man
By Manasia Thorn
Baleful man.
I heard you have a plan.
Baleful man.
I heard your grand.
Will you hurt
her heart.
Will you hit her and quit it.
Will you take all her money.
Will you abuse her, take her dome and split it.
Baleful man.
You cannot love.
Baleful man.
You are from hell, incapabale of love.
Baleful man, I
hear your cries.
Baleful man, I know you wish to die.
Baleful man, you have demystifyed women.
Remember your motto:
"The ways
of a woman are no longer mysterious, they
are just boring"
Now you see, it is hard to swallow.
Baleful man, you
pimp the hoes.
Baleful man, what can a woman offer you?
Baleful man, Baleful Man.
Baleful man, I
heard you pray for a Goddess.
Are you no longer Baleful.
Have you tried your hardest?
To atone for your atrocities.
Baleful man, do you have anything to say to me?
WIll you hurt the Barbados Goddess?
Will you leave her?
Baleful man, will you build an oracle to her?
Baleful man I heard the Goddess of Barbados call you
Eros. . .
I wonder if it is true?
Baleful God, is she really true?
Baleful man? In your life, is she apart of your
eternal plan?
Jovan&Wenda
By Manasia Thorn
The Printing Press was dilapidated and old.
The main office was empty.
However there still was one confused soul.
The editor in chief of this magazine was still there ...
Searching through his writings.
He found none exciting.
He picked up his knapsack.
And threw his troubles on his back.
Has was an out of work writer.
Well let’s be honest, we do not want to be liars.
He has never worked officially.
He only wrote to himself.
Because others thought his work was stupidity . . .
She got out of
her chair.
Went to the window.
And to the west she began to stare . . .
He looked tired, felt depressed.
He wanted to die; he looked down from the building
under his feet.
And right when he was going to jump, he felt a blowing
wind from the east . . .
She held the pistol
to her head, began to pull it when
a voice from the west said . . .
Wenda, wait let
me write a story for you.
Let me write upon your heart a magazine anew.
In this Magazine you will be on the cover everyday.
And I will be your top writer.
Writing your confusion away.
You can be my editor in chief.
The one who can cut out of my article of life.
Misery and grief.
No one has ever hired me to write.
They say my words are too strong, or they say my words
are too nice.
Wenda please hire me a writer named Jovan.
Whose wandered the world without and editor for so
long.
She put the gun
down away from her head.
Looked again toward the west and said.
Please come to
me.
I need you to write for me, possibly for eternity.
What has she done?
By Manasia Thorn
I'm a ghetto revolutionary.
Nigga I ain't skurred, nor scary.
Screaming F-You to the post civil rights generation.
Cuz they prefer me to cut my braids and sell my soul
for assimilation.
I walk the streets full of anger.
Full of malice and hate, having fun putting others in
danger.
However after
meeting her, I am calm like a lake in da
backwoods of Florida.
And to my friends, I dun turned sweet like a peach
from Georgia.
What has she done?
How can she, tall
brown and skinny, weighing 110 not
even a buck fifty , subdue me?
I used to always
say, women were afraid of my strong
essence.
But she, she embraces my presence.
What has she done?
She is a never
ending fire.
My days of referring to women as bitches and hoes have
expired.
She is Goddess on high.
What has she done?
I ain't even had sex with her, and I am sprung.
What has she done?
I think she's the one.
I am a Black Man
(Black Man in Limbo) - Part 2
By Manasia Thorn
I am a man who does not bother.
Who makes a bunch of babies.
Then becomes a transparent father.
I am a patriarch
of stupidity.
Supressing my women for my own gain.
Causing them so much torment and pain.
I am a black man.
One who worships the gods of his opressors.
Allah, God and Jesus to name a few.
And whateva say.
Like a clone I do.
I am a black man.
Puisallinmous, atrocious, and malicous.
I secretly scream at night.
I wish I was white.
Because when I look in the mirror, all I see is death
and no light.
I am a black man.
And death is my only plan.
Is there a way,
a way for me?
Why have I accepted things about me, that are not
even me?
W.T.C. - Would
Thou Cry
By Manasia Thorn
No Disrespect
to the dominate culture.
But you know who you are, and this aint meant to
insult ya.
Just a lil question for the massess including you.
Sit back relax,
take a breather, this gone take a
moment or two.
I wonder if Atta
and dem boyz, would have hit two
project buildings in Harlem, instead of the two
buildings that represented you.
Woudl thou cry? If it would not have been you?
Would thou cry?
If the building had no captialistic
intrest?
Would thou raise the money to help the victims?
Or would you say,
sorry but the hood is not in our
intrest.
Would thou cry?
Tall Skinny Gurlz
By Manasia Thorn
Yo this is my
dedication.
And my apprecation.
For my Tall Skinny Gurls all across the world and this
nation.
I beez da 6'4
egalitarian, who aint skurred when you
walk by.
I respect you as Allat, and Maat, the Goddess most
high.
U see my Tall Skinny Gurlz, run my world.
They so off da
chain, wit dey small breasts and
thangs.
But Size 0 to 9 waists, and small long hips mayne.
If da Gurl is
5'9, she can be a friend mine.
If da Gurl is 5'10, we can be more than friends.
5'11, may I walk up your stairs to heaven.
6'0, Goddess please let me build an oracle to you.
and that also goes for 6'1,6'2,6'3, and 6'4 too.
Tall Skinny Gurlz, Forever my Boos!
The Life of Manasia
By Immaculute
This is a lil story about the Life of Manasia.
The eclectic feminist.
The Reformed patriarch.
However, love has never given him a start.
And hate, malice, and coldness are the trinity of his
heart.
He wakes up day
to day.
Not knowing what is next.
Never knowing what is best.
He Flies city
to city and nation.
Chasing something.
Which from his grasp.
Is always escapin.
Egalitarian man.
Egalitarian man.
What do you look for?
In secret you
want a wife.
But you know, you never will trust a woman in your
life.
I weep for you
monsieur Manasia.
For the wrath and pain you caused in your younger
days.
Is overcoming you, and making your youthfulness turn
gray.
Alas! Look at
the Great One.
Who has all the woman sprung.
Yet does not like a single one.
He turns down sex, because he wishes to be loved for
his heart and mind.
Manasia.
Manasia.
I hear you crying.
Wishing this chapter of your life could end.
So the Goddess can start your chapter on dying.
No need in calling
upon death.
You made this bed hard.
And you will lay in it yourself.
I see that there
is a possible child in your life.
How could such a man who is a humanitarian, hate life.
You wish that she aborts the child.
For your greatest fear.
Is he will be like you, a river running wild.
So thus, the life
of Manasia ends as such.
An old hateful, man who never will have a real Goddess
touch.
The Life of Manasia,
is in cubist form.
Not realist like the norm.
I will pray to the Goddess and God for you.
IF you have not
read the poem entitled "FUBU" which is
supposed to be by Maya Angelou, you may not understand
this.
Fabricator
By Manasia C. Thorn
Fabricator, you
took the Goddess Maya's name and
spread it wide.
Placing her name on a poem u wrote, spreading your
baleful lies.
So this right here is my little reply.
I GUESS, you thought
I would be the stupid one to
believe this was her pen.
I GUESS you thought, I would start buying FUBU instead
of RALPH LAUREN.
I GUESS you thought, I was gay because I rock VERSACE.
Laced with GATORS, and another brand you forgot called
ARMANI.
As I walk over
you with you my TIMBERLAND boots.
Throwing BOMBS from my NAUTICA ship.
Dressed in a LIZ CLAIBORNE shirt, and DONNA KAREN
jeans for men on my hips.
Making a Decree,
to all my people so we can be free.
Calling all NIGGERS, who wear TOMMY HILFIGER!
Is not what you wear, but where your heart is at.
And if your heart is filled love, then you will break
the whips,
of that mentality that was given to us when we arrived
on slave ships.
Oh I forgot FUBU
to tell you what FUBU means to me.
FOR US BY niggaz who prostitute US and the black
community.
Who claim that
they help US, when we still dying.
When the hood is hell on earth and fatherless children
are crying.
Clothes have nothing to do with soul.
Peace, and to
the Fabricator, you need put your
fakeness under control.
Let's Dance with
Death
By Manasia Thorn
Come on playboy.
I know you tired of being her toy.
She use you and abuse you.
and your friends hurt you and straight run through
you.
Come with me, into an astral fantasy.
Let's Dance with Death.
Pull the trigger and take your life.
I promise if you do it, Suicide will become your wife.
Baam! Baam!
Hey Pretty Girl, I see you everyday.
I bet you wondering why men call you a hoe.
But you do not even act that way.
And remember your last boyfriend.
He slept with your bestfriend.
Hurt your feelings, and he also wrote you fake poetry
with a false pen.
Gurl, thangs is
gone be alright.
Just grip this needle tight.
Put about 5 hits of dat speedball in your needle, to
get it right.
Now drank some of this GHP, with this valium and
prepare to fly with me.
To eternal ecastsy.
Let's Dance with Death.
People, People
open up your ears.
Death is our friend, in the minds of us Youth, he was
never a fear.
As your children reach out to you, and you refute
them.
Do not wander why they die.
Just remember
they are Dancing with me under a bane
sky.
Let's Dance with Death.
What Christmas
means to me
By Manasia C. Thorn
It is that time
of year again.
Where people show love and unity.
And write beautiful poems with their pens.
However, I have to disagree.
Let me break it down, and tell you what christmas
means to me.
First of all.
Christmas don't have anything to do with that cat
Christ at all.
Money is the Reason for this season.
While you weak people go broke buying gifts for people
who have no concern for you.
The men in suits is racking in all your dollars and
they are lauging at you.
Christmas has
never did anything for me.
The only thing I see is a world full of people, who
only show tide and good cheer once a year.
Who are hellified 364 days, but one day they are
lovely
and full of light, however they are sheer.
And I see black
folks who making money off of kwaanza
because that has been abused too.
They tell us that this is for us.
And that christmas is a bust.
Yet they commerical too, straight lying and raping us.
I be the Grinch
that stole your fantasy.
I be the scrooge that refuses to buy into your bane
sense of a ho-ho-ho reality.
The only thing
I love about christmas, is the fine
lovely gurls that is in church on sunday.
Or the ones that be in they lil miss santa outfits.
Looking ill as hell, espically if they a height of 6.
Or dem lovely
gurls in their African clothing,
celebrating kwaanza.
And to all my
females and family.
If you looking for gifts.
I aint ya sponsor.
I do not expect
gifts nor do I buy them.
And if you send me some shoes I do not like.
I Will fry them.
This is the end
of this poem and let me end with this.
No Disrepsect to the rest who celebrate it.
But Christmas is BullSh**.