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Self Acceptance: Maybe I Can Drink The Ocean

5 Apr

This song is indescribably deep with elements from different genres and time periods. Give it a listen independently of the piece or play it while you read. These two go together like potted meat and saltines.

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Judgmental people made me imperfect and in their judgmental stew I marinated. My mirror is the liar and my vision is not to be trusted.

I can recall with some effort when love of self was the order of my day and as common as an exhale.

Good thoughts flowed like time. Now that flow has been dammed and deviated to the desert of second guessing.

The me I know turned into the me I knew. The solid self-reflections of others pelted me from below as that was their only angle.

Confusion was a leech that slowly sapped my love of life, sunsets, seeing people and breathing. My person had a broken leg and was set for pasture.

To the wounded time will heal, for me time is hell. Left flailing in an ocean the only hope is to drink to not drown.

All is not lost for me.

I still have my awe inspirations. My time here is not wasted. The mountains I love so much are here. The trees that sway in the afternoon breeze are still here.The female form that I truly love is still a work of art. I still have plenty of love in me.

We are just primates sitting in front of computers with no keyboards, left unimpressed and bored we tear at each other.

We still have forgiveness in us.

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The Wind Carries My Wailing

30 Mar

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We are not meant to live in pain.

Sorrow is not a possession.

Cries in night long sessions of ruminating is a virus.

Easily caught and seldom expelled.

Our movements kicked up winds that carried our wailing.

We tote burdens like a beast in a dance with no music and no lead.

Never to far from tears our eyes burn, our teeth grind, our thoughts slip through with no consideration.

We are islands by mistake and the tide has forgotten us.

If I reached out to another one my hand is rejected and the wind will carry my wailing.

My sorrow has become my luggage and it’s packed with memories of my hand being rejected.

So I set sail, but this wind won’t carry my wailing, but me, to offer another hand.  

My Heart Went Out.

20 Dec

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I sometimes smell smoke. The sweet smoke of lives and livelihoods as they dissipate down the stark and tired hallways of history. Something like the smokes of Rosewood Florida, where 6 or more Black people were murdered in 1923.

 
I sometimes see fires burning and the ghosts of lives not realized emerge from these fires. The ghost of daddy’s little girls and dolls not played with scream at me to not let them forget. My ears ring from the reverb of bombs not seen, but louder still are the voices of four little girls, in a church, in Birmingham, Alabama in 1963.
 
I sometimes feel the pain of families that have vanished for no reason other than for the fact that they were families. The pride of lives built from the ashy, dryness of hate and spite sprout to meet the heavens and the heavens they met. Noontime clocks rang tea time and Black hands held tea cups on a Black street called Wall. Not to be outdone white hands held weapons and the power of privilege could not look into Black eyes as equal. Tulsa, Oklahoma 68 Black people killed.     
 
I sometimes hear doors slamming and see iron bars that trap Black souls that are only suspects. In this land of the free, freedom is relative and no kin me. I am a Black man and I am guilty until proven more guilty. This new slavery hasn’t caught me yet, but I grow tired and my stride grows weak. In Amerika, they have locked up right now more than two million people and most look like me. 
 
I feel sorry for the people of Columbine and the people of Virginia Tech. I want to hurt for the people of Aurora and the children of Sandy Hook will be okay. 
 
I would send my heart out to all the people who have lost in this time, but my heart already went out and it never returned.  

Lest We Forget

9 Nov

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The balloons have all been popped, the confetti has long since settled, the check didn’t come last time and the check won’t come this time. Black faces with painted on smiles held out HOPE for CHANGE and ended up holding out their hands for change. Disappointment is easily forgotten through sweet speeches and amber waves of grain. The red, white and blue will never include Black, from sea to shining sea.

Lest we forget, this is the road often traveled that leads us to the road often traveled. We are so optimistic with a face that looks like ours own, until we don’t see that that face has never faced us…..except to chastise and patronize.

Oh, say can’t you see by the dawns early light, that we are alone here? We can stand on purple mountains and not see one that would defends us, helps us, calls us their own. Lest we forget, the White House is not the color of the house, but the status of the house. We simply clean it and keep it white.

Lest we forget, the rockets red glare are still sending death to people that look like us. Those bombs didn’t burst in air, but in homes of people, that look like you and I. That star spangled banner will not include Black nor will highest office in the land.

Lest we forget, we were dragged here for one reason and that reason still be the reason we are here. So wipe those grins off, stand up straight, look out for me, as I look out for you.

Before we get to proud of ourselves, lest we forget, when that paper was signed YOU and I were in the barn with the rest of the animals.

My Flower With a Missing Petal

28 Sep

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She was a revalation.

She came to me as such.

With gentle gaze my eyes could not reckon, not even with mountainous effort.

She covered my sight like a rolling mist, she was absolute, her sweetness shook me.

I wanted this woman and I would have this woman, like long drinks of cold water when only water would do.

My thoughts wrapped around her and we became fused and she devoured me.

I loved her like light, life and upliftment, she could not commit, something had been spoiled and she saw that something in me.

Long hours I reasoned, neither day nor night brought forth resolution.

Had guilty pleasure given way to simple pleasure?

I want to need her, I need to want her. It’s what I’m here for or why am I here?

How could I unlock her sacred heart and move in?

Please.

The secret would remain so and I would remain only half known.

My flower was still my flower and her stains she will not allow to be washed away.

My eyes cannot see but her glory as she puts her hands up to cover them.

My mouth speaks of my love for her as she silences me with a kiss.

Her hurt I can now feel and I let her be, I let her go.

When will she let her hurt go and let herself live?

this piece came to me as a friend and I were talking about past relationships. We came to the conclusion that most of the women we had known and loved had been abused. Either sexually or what have you. They often don’t feel like they should be loved or could be loved. I want all of them to know that you can be loved and will be loved if you let that happen.  

Our Hearts Remain.

15 Sep

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We played while bullets flew over head.

 

We play as they collect bodies broken and torn, we didn’t see.

 

Cooled battlefields are our playgrounds, not cooled for long as hate drifts in and out.

 

We are still children, our hearts remain, our spirits are not broken, our spirits are bent.

 

We will one day fight on the these playgrounds that are cooled battlefields.

 

Our hearts remain as children though not given a chance, we see this world through children’s eyes, we take to the sky and forsake the ground.

 

Days are still hopeful as flags burn and holes dug.

 

Smoke draped sunny days are still sunny days, even as mothers wail and dust settles around fresh Earth.

 

Our hearts remain as bullets fly and ominous skies bring hell fire and grief, we may not make it today, but it’s still day and we have some playing to do.

The New World

27 Aug

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Chains passing by chains and ocean waves crashing on familiar rocks made for a haunting song of departure. Faces strange and tongues unknown made myth tangible and myth makers, fortune tellers. Why had we been invaded? Weapons had not been sharpened nor raised in offense. We had always welcomed newcomers and saw them on their way. Our land had been ours. Did we not realize error? Distant landscape and wide sky that had been witnessed from inception, are they now in recall? Had we angered the gods and interrupted natures flow?

Had monstrous vessels bobbing on our seas been sent for to devour our wrongdoing and make us whole again? Would we go back to our lands renewed and free of transgressions? That would not be our circumstance and we would never go back.

The people we had known, land we nurtured, the animals we had stalked, the trees and valleys, the mighty falls of water, even the moon and stars would be left behind. The spirit and love of a people would now be damned and waterlogged, with salty air mashing in with illness, sickness and lightless confusion and roughness of no more. We had been left behind and what was taken was now malleable and meaningless and would come to mark the end of this world. They had given birth to a breached, stillborn, bastard that would bring nothing but deep, deep destitution and alienation that would be etched in the stone tables of time. We had arrived to the new world.