Sick & Tired
“Got a foot in my chest,/Call it life’s rude awakening,/I ain’t a kid no more,/Can’t just thrash bout and call folk out,/That’s just the type of stuff that gets me tossed out,/Concrete jungle gon swallow me up,/And maybe there,/My light might shine through,/Till then,/I’m sick and tired of being tired,/I’m sick and tired of looking stupid,/I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired,/That’s just not me.”—Clarence Morse, Jr.
Monarca Fai
ANDOVER Massachusetts—(Weekly Hubris)—1 August 2020—
“Sick and Tired”
By Clarence Morse, Jr.
Getting tired of being tired,
Days where I’m just doing the same thing,
Looking for somebody to say they love me,
But I’m looking in the wrong places,
So I end up sitting alone,
Staring at my phone,
Mindless,
Swipe left or swipe right,
Nothing bout that personality,
Where’s the substance,
Told me I’m looking for depth in a place that don’t got none,
She shallow,
And I’m rolling in the Mariana,
Guess we keep finding more problems,
Guess I’mma keep digging trenches,
Cause I keep looking for my Mary Jane,
And end up with Felicia,
Running through the streets,
With my rose colored glasses,
I’m looking back at the past and hoping things were sweeter,
Cause the grass ain’t been greener on the other side,
Got a foot in my chest,
Call it life’s rude awakening,
I ain’t a kid no more,
Can’t just thrash bout and call folk out,
That’s just the type of stuff that gets me tossed out,
Concrete jungle gon swallow me up,
And maybe there,
My light might shine through,
Till then,
I’m sick and tired of being tired,
I’m sick and tired of looking stupid,
I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired,
That’s just not me,
I just wanna feel free,
Stead I balance my last paychecks on my fingertips,
Hoping I make rent,
Hoping I make just enough so I can pay for a car,
So I can drive as far as I want to,
Sundays spent cruising down country lanes,
Frank Ocean on the aux,
As the sky becomes Pink and White,
I wonder if that’s what heaven would feel like,
A good harmony,
Taking in the end of summer breeze,
Watching as the trees turn to fall leaves,
That would be a perfect remedy,
But who am I to begin dreaming,
Who am I to begin wondering,
I’m just a poet with drum sticks,
I’ll play you the rhythms of my memories
Clarence Morse
Clarence Morse, Jr. is a man of many names and many faces. At 22, he’s led poetry workshops throughout the world and been both prodigal son and/or caring friend. A student of The School of Hard Knocks, he’s spent his time trying to make sense of the world in the only way he knows: poetry. Whether on stage or layered on a track, he’ll show why he goes by Monarca Fai. (Banner Image: Roberto Powers; Author Photo: Lya Morse.)
3 Comments
Will
Clarence Morse, this poem evokes so much in terms of feelings, concerns; disparate and seemingly unconnected perceptions and events enumerated, you show how it ALL fits together in a single, pained path, all part of the rhythm of life. Thank you for this, and for contributing to this issue of Weekly Hubris.
FTheresa Gillard
CJ – Our chance meeting in Andover was a bit more than that, huh? I really appreciate your willingness to share your piece. I love it just as much, as the first time I heard it.
FTG
Felicia
CJ, I was taking back to weekends spent on the lake with my family and long Sunday rides where the water touched the sky and made all the stress of the week fade away. Where other black families gathered with food, love and good music. We were free to just be free. That’s what heaven was to me.