Picture ya life on the subway –
Labeled a runaway.
Always taught to chase dreams, but catching them was never imagined.
On the train til infinity, where every malfunction exceeds a boundary.
The sky ain’t the limit, its the ticket.
What’s the difference?
I can see beyond the colors of the prism.
I have touched many moons.
Floating – weightless –
Healing myself, still doctoring the wounds from when they severed the ties to my portal.
The only home I’ve known, now it just seems as if love don’t live here no more…
So I roam.
Telling the streets my secrets.
Leaving tattoos when I spit the words penetrate the skin.
The concrete cracks.
A Rose emerges.
The train door closes before I even look back…
I pricked myself on the thorns, I wail as the horn sounds…I realize
My overstanding reality is under attack.
Still in a room,
A broken mirror reflects flawless smiles of all those that once stared before it.
Gleaming eyes looking for themselves in fragments of light.
I can’t yet see through.
My tears and the street lights create stained glass.
Looking at memories abandoned in pictures, and the pain that is sheltered, buried, and concealed in temples.
Shattered and now broken open.
I pick up the pieces with the roughest edges first.
I cut myself — countless times.
It hurts not to scream!
As a child you are taught that silence is comforting,
Explicitly a fools gold, a dastardly violence.
The blood has been contaminated with secrecy.
Life’s own mystery;
What good is the knowledge of hystori if the truth never gets told?
I see myself in rare form….beautiful….
This bigger picture envisioned is actually a puzzle;
we are each others pieces.
There are no borders, filters, nor frames….
Regardless not everyone fits, still you are..
“if you feed a dog a frog, he’ll poop a prince”.
Break Fast & Read Slow.
This morning I sit contemplating, scrummaging through synonyms and personifications. I take a stab at exercising mediation and writing being in sync.
Once upon a time I believed that communication in relationships [i.e Family, Intimate, Friends ,etc] was farfetched. Telling one person, let alone the world how I feel? Never!That is…until I picked up a pen, maybe it was a pencil, or maybe I was sitting at the computer abusing it with my bead eyes and frolicking fingers.
Since then I have been pursing creative writing. First – I wrote with intentions of beefing up my confidence, but more importantly I found an outlet. The feeling is natural, as I began to simmer down writing became a healthier alternative for expressing myself, and the way I feel.
I have dissected every syllable and ingested every doubt. Collecting memories like recipes, and holding them close like secrets.
No longer do I believe that I am restricted to pain, sadness, tearful joy, trauma, warm love, oppression, heartbreak, etc to produce a gem. The pressure has ceased, and all these ingredients are just that.
As appetizing as it reads – surely it does not define the divine Goddess I am.
So currently I am marinating in this process of enlightenment. Soaking up the pungent frustration and tart effortlessness. I am the author of [my] cookbook; is your mind malnourished? How about some dessert for thought, the sweetest tasting intellect served on a platinum incrusted paper plate.
Thus allowing you to savor every simile, break down every syllable, and extract every nutrient from my light, and let the imagery melt in your hand and mouth, this is what love tastes like.
Bon Appétit !,
– Vigilant Leighrick, Poetic Renegade.
Man sometimes I get so frustrated with myself and the mistakes I make, but I realize I will keep making them until I learn my lesson. I have to also take into consideration that I am young, but no matter what age I am these life comes with its set of challenges. I am grateful to have the set of eyes to realize this. I wont be able to spell satisfaction with the action. I will be better.
Instead of sleeping I think.
Conversing with my Conscience.
rekindling memories and setting ablaze doubts.
I am the smile and the frown, together
Jaded compliments, opening old wounds
Tho deceptive as the skin may be,
The density of my bones, upholds a heavy spirit.
It beams light, and eases darkness.
Breaching the infrastructure of this tale, it’s growing
Rooted so far down the sky becomes the ground, and
My solar plexus houses the blueprints of galaxies.
Invisible to looking eyes.
Tap into the 3rd frequency, and see
Wisdom is heard in the whispers.
Instead of sleeping I think.
Imagining my own colors,
Sanding a frame of sizable impression for masterpieces.
Empathy is kept safe in the right atrium’s, saving what’s left for the ventricles.
I found love on a two way street,
Sitting at the crossroads.
Unlocking the gift to
Instead of sleeping, I think.
I sit at my computer. I allow my conscience to marinate some of my best qualities and passions into my fingers — I begin typing. I enable my mind to go through this vigorous hard-laboring pain of molding my love for basketball into words. It is a love compiled of harsh metaphors and unimaginable personifications. Basketball is my poetry; my words wrap the ball like Spalding. Anything I am able to write on is my canvas, and any court, concrete, wooden or rubber I am able to play on. Half a piece of paper cannot stop me from expressing myself, and half of a court will not stop me from playing to my maximum potential. An empty pen and a flat ball will not dictate my future.
One night I dreamed so close to reality, I almost did not wake up. The announcer was calling out my teammates. Maya Angelou was the point guard, because she threw the most creative behind-the-back passes that ignorance could never capture– a true definition of The Heart of a Woman. At shooting guard appeared Alice Walker because her explanation of living as a black woman in America is perfect. She continues to put up shots. Hatred’s hand tries to contest the shot, only to fail and become the reason her eye has turned The Color Purple. As I gazed toward our locker room door I had to blink twice, because through those doors shone The Beloved power forward, Toni Morrison. She was ready to box-out all who would try to annihilate our chance to score, and to restore our rights as a culture. Right after her came Gwendolyn Brooks, the center, helping rebound our “Black Love” when the direction of the love and respect is unpredictable. She is the backbone and the strength of our team’s pride. I stand integrity as the small forward the smallest punctuation being the biggest part of the sentence. I call a huddle at half-court, and we all place our hands in the middle. Five minds, five hearts, five different personalities defined as one team. We all cross-over to a new chapter in the same book of life. The scoreboard buzzes, and I go to grab a last drink before the game resumes; only the last time I blinked, I opened my eyes only to find I was staring blissfully at my ceiling.
Every poet/author in my dream has taught me to be culturally and self aware. In basketball they say “practice makes perfect”, and in writing perfect practice makes an incredible writer. So in every practice I allow my writing utensil to dribble my emotions across each page with sentences like quick passes, and every stanza is another quarter I’ve given my all. Each time I step onto the court all troubles seem to cease. The ball is a symbol of life. I know that the ball gets passed around to people and sometimes even plagiarized and mistreated. I understand the players in my life may come and go, some people may pass a way, but the lessons they have taught me are still invaluable.