Yosuf+Ansarizadeh

Yosuf Ansarizadeh

Ethiopian, I run to get away from it all, to escape the snares of the television down the hall that seems to call my name, to escape the finger-lickin’ after chicken-pickin’, and to leave behind the bickering, most of all. I try to get away from the belittling that my sister often practices. She is my responsibility, and she makes me feel small? That is not how one should treat one’s keeper. I run from pain, both past and present into yet more pain, for the future pain is gain. I attempt to put distance between the cancer of my mother’s breast and myself. Oh, how powerful fear is. Fear of illness, baldness, “nails-less-ness,” and lethargy. I run for a change of pace that life so rarely affords me. I run for understanding. They say that exercise is good for cognitive function. Plus, I’d rather not take it slow. 5:18 is much better than 7:40, is it not? I am no one-man track team, no world-record setter. The speed of others does not matter. I compete against myself. I must leave the old me in my tracks, and until he stops and falls to the floor I cannot relax. In following with the advice of a certain Charles Xavier, I strive to be the better man. So stride by bone-jarring stride I seek to ditch the fat me, the lazy me, the procrastinating me. Persian, the valuable ink of a scholar flows throw my veins. As such, poetry is my primary means of expression. There is not a better way to relieve tension after someone makes me feel an emotion, be it love, be it hate, if they have me feeling great, than to put my pen to paper and write. Rap is the vehicle that delivers me from the cubicle of my mind. My aura takes the form of the aurora borealis as I experience the catharsis that rap delivers. I take it upon myself to continue the tradition of the Persian poets but to make my own mark upon it. Words are potent, emotional bombs that have a devastating impact in a minute measure of time. It is this ability to elicit a deep emotional response from my reader that draws me to make poetry. I look for the magnitude of these emotional responses from the audience as a means of judging my success. With so little so, so much may be said. To paraphrase Shakespeare, a man should be what he seems to be, and if he is not, he is worthless. Every day is a new test for me. I strive to seem to be what I should be so that I may do my reputation well; for in this small biome of mine, reputation is immortal. Each incongruity in seeming and being is yet another vulture that strikes at my ever-living liver. I’m no Prometheus; however, I hope that I will be able to bring fire to the microphone when I step upon the stage