Everything is black —
I can’t remember much
Just the touch of the Angels that’s helping me up.
Looking at my stiffened body is chilling.
Throw my head back – the smoke has me ascending.
Deep breathes spread the embers that keep my soul lit.
I find myself walking towards the light with a regrettable peacefulness.
The roots have been spoiled with magic and shaded by myths.
Is this a test?
A trust testament of my growth or just the repercussions of my actions.
I am at a loss for words, incomplete sentences like ad-libs.
I am wondering.
Searching for the nouns like symbols and the beats of adjectives like mad-lib.
I am running.
Racing my shadow like I’ve rescued my inner child.
Now we’re crying so hysterically it turns into laughter.
Everything is black.
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..
The Ambition of a Writer.
I’d travel all seven seas, and spend a night in Atlantis just so one can understand the depth from which I speak.
On the days I feel all hope for my creativity has vanished,
My heart skips a beat, I begin to bleed ink,
I regurgitate my passion.
My vocabulary expands its horizons, as my composition book fills itself with growth – and I am no master at life, but in my world imagination knows no limits.
I look outside my window, and all that appears is a blank canvas, a world unprepared for the voice of the unspoken artists…
Be yourself everyone else is already taken.