Sam Cooke

I had a chance to change once, but I was too afraid to be…what you thought was or would be…the real me…I had a chance to change once, I remember when I looked in the mirror and ashamed of my own reflection, neglecting all that I knew to be true. I had a chance to change once…The boy in me was too shy to come out of his shell, holding onto whatever youth I had left, I tried to change, It just never made the change with me. I had a chance to change once…I rekindle the light of memory; I serenaded a melody, a symphony if you will, and prayed upon the nights I dreaded change, a change of life that I lost and would never dared or ever cared enough to look for, a change similar what Sam Cooke searched for. I digress more from the problem at hand…the chance within my clutches, the change I had as crutches. The same chance I had was the change I ran from, I dreamt for the two to meet, I waited patiently on the stoop of faith, but to no avail…I failed me once again…the chance I had at change…I wonder where I would be if they ever ran across one another, would I be CHANGE you can consider taking a CHANCE on!

Truth Of Lies

I raped the thought of losing grip on this here life, subsequently it thrills me to know it can kill me at the same time, I search the realm of earth to find myself worth and I found nothing in return. You search through books, texts, media sublets, and to find the meaning…where simply we lose touch of what was never within our grasps. I don’t need a picture, a verse, or scripture to define me, my meaning defines my meaning, my shines and sparks the plugs of the clueless mind, and I find peace in the noise I craft, I find my way in my maze I paved, you see you overstand me to understate my complexity.  I go beyond the truth of lies, I sore beyond the bird that flies, I levitate beyond the soul that dies, you see when the wind hums Mary and the darkness seems scary and meek, you see truth in the eyes of the night… you see ME!

Foreplay on Life

I used life for what it was, I used life for what it was to me…it was just time on a clock, it was just a tick and a tock. I would promenade with the surrogates of time; I would search every rhythm with a rhyme. In due time the clock would often say, stacking on my floors were the list of regrets that I have yet to forget. Yet I remember yesterday, I remember the simplest of things, I conjured up thoughts and consequences that brought me to this very state, I wait for the warning signs, I lust the irony of ignoring the ignorant and falling in love with the incompetent. I used this life for all that it has owed to me, the air I breathe, the food I digest, in jest I digress to the matter at hand, I disband my beliefs to the fallacies of our harsh realities. I used to love life, now I regret it, I used to lust life, now I am in love again.

Blessed

I am Blessed, YOU ARE BLESSED we are all blessed, I remember being stressed, growing tired of the test of life, hoping and praying that one day my graces will soon come to manifest.  I cry and say in jest I am, you are, we are blessed. On those lonely nights of solitude, I would cry, dare to say I would rather die than to relive another harsh disappointing day of culmination.  No words could ever salvage the times I have sulked in my own damp tears, the years went by, the days turned to hours, the hours told the same story to seconds, seconds it took for the last tear to drop before I resigned for the night. Yet I digress, for I am blessed, yes blessed to be alive, to be awake at such early wee hour of the morning, bless to grace the streets of such gumbo, humbled to hear a stomach grumble and fill with fruitful knowledge of wisdom. Yes I am, yes you ARE, and indeed we are all blessed. I would rather sleep during the hurricanes of life, than waste those sunny precious days over self-loathing, o’ the loathe you wear as a coat, drenched in your own emotion. Remember we are all blessed, we are blessed, and we are all blessed.

If I Wrote the Book On the Revolution!

If I wrote the book on the revolution, I would include the constitution, yes the constitution no optical illusion, I would rewrite history, I would contemplate the days of Malcolm before Farrakhan, Martin Luther Before he Became King.  The revolution goes beyond THE OBAMA ADMINISTRATION, something you see hardly, the revolution will never BE INVITED TO THE TEA PARTY. Yes If I wrote the book on the revolution, it would not end in conclusion, the revolution is endless… no solution to what we know as the resolution. Our forefathers would be yo’ daddy, my daddy, his daddy, the revolution settles for simple means in life. My word on the revolution tells the tale of stories that never ends with a moral cause,for the martyrs are our heroes. Gil Scott Heron Said the revolution will not be televised... but he never stated it could never be written…roots is our Bible, Books are our way for survival, they would be our means to know what the revolution is…we are the revolution…we are our democracy, we are the change we see, the revolution will be written in the universal language of the world….Peace.

SIMBA

I contemplated for days of how I would have my first talk with you, I was never able to get the words right.  Hoping you can see through the light, hoping that I am your first sight at life. what joy you will soon bring me, what jovial feeling of seeing a little replica of me, holding it high to heavens ceiling, so revealing that you look just like yo’ daddy. Watching your every move as you emulate every step that I take, I would explain to you that the risk is not in the choice, but the choices you make lies within the risk you take. My little man, my SIMBA, you are a sight for sore eyes, you would mean the absolute world to me, I would watch you sleep for hours, give you baby showers, but as I know we grow as spring flowers, I will soon have to loosen my grip and allow you to trip and learn from every fall. A man will be what a man will be, but it is the character that defines him, and it is that in fact what the people shall see.  But you are just an imagination of what will soon come my son; you will be the mistake I wish to never undo…for you will be my Simba, My Prince, My ripple reflection beyond the ponds of time…My Son, the Gift that was given unto me.

Honestly Speaking

I reside in the belly of honesty and honestly, lately my honesty bothers me. If the mind had a mental conversation with the heart, would it spill all that it thought of, would the heart have the heart to convey such heartache, would the mind find a way to be more mindful? How frivolous of me to question one’s mind and heart of honesty.  Do they come from the same place? is their anyway  they came to an agreement that they will never see eye to eye. To be brutally honest, I could never be honest enough, allowing me to trust something I never had the heart to, we tend to follow the minds of others in order to find our own, what an empty feeling it is to have, what a joy of ignorance, a bliss of nothingness, but honestly who gives a f*&k!