When I was a child, I spoke as a child,
I understood as a child, I thought as a child;
But when I became a man,
I put childish things away.
1 Corinthians 13:11
"THE SMOKING GUN 2"
The Squeal To ThE Break Out Indie Movie Of The Summer
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
LIFE WITH SUPERMAN...
1.
Over cold cups of coffee frowns
Eyes dripping rims of bent promise.
Pulling the edge of my lips further down,
Subtle yet stinging, waking the warmth.
Unraveling the senses of purest intentions.
Concealed and bound, craving for something more profound.
Illustration, submerges with perfection.
I taught you
Equations of breathing, suicide rain easy to forget.
Tugging on tendons and back roads,
Was the scent of your neck swelling my liver.
Ineffable of affection, desired in all direction,
Cultivated to preserve the emotional perception,
Of deepest confession.
2.
The abyss of infinity.
This sexually unadulterated mental connection,
With whispers of surreal vacations,
As you enter my lips.
Lets our minds engage, the climatic altitude of nude,
The mental sensation of conversation.
Find the fine fibers of your imagination.
Your top lip cringes.
My bottom lip quivers.
3.
Wings, fly.
Chains, break.
Armor, tightens.
Skin, sweats.
Nothing was like when fingertips met.
Hollowed minds no pleasure within mental orgasms.
Instinctive,
Gasp of sweet surrender.
Time stabs penetrates.
Synonyms collectively play coy to words need said,
Simultaneously coexist.
I was your gentle innocence you fooled with,
Eyes dripping rims of bent promise.
Over cold cups of coffee frowns.
The sweet blunders of HELLO!
I POET....
1.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead.
The rain pours, in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this
Poem before it begins.
This poem, in the nights dawn,
Born prematurely will fail its purpose.
Wicked weevil, the briefest indulge-ment in seasonal pleasure.
Rotating bodies, confused by sound.
Human mythology, urban folklore
Light shown in dark, image exposed
Standing as jokers
Court gesture logic
Sick field of cosmic,
From school yards to college.
Primitive man and his civilized knowledge.
Systems collapse, playing blind men, and still will not
Acknowledge.
Global economy in it for self.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead.
The rain pours, in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this
Poem before it begins.
This poem, in the nights dawn,
Born prematurely will fail its purpose.
Wicked weevil, the briefest indulge-ment in seasonal pleasure.
Rotating bodies, confused by sound.
Human mythology, urban folklore
Light shown in dark, image exposed
Standing as jokers
Court gesture logic
Sick field of cosmic,
From school yards to college.
Primitive man and his civilized knowledge.
Systems collapse, playing blind men, and still will not
Acknowledge.
Global economy in it for self.
2.
Set bound for more mythical tale
It’s the mind that they chose
Being taught designs to stay close.
Words to a failed songs,
Hearts made to be weak.
Depth perception.
Crowned holiday.
A gossip of wind. An accident never occurring,
A tongue dipped in the unvarnished truth, of this poem.
But yet still it will fail.
Sheet music of the winds.
Natures sublime wander lines.
Fine words and insinuating appearance are seldom associated with
Its virtue.
This poem makes no sense.
This poem makes perfect sense.
It is a politician.
A Minster, to a congregation of none.
A klans-men celebrating black history 366 days.
Enthusiastic,
This poem is HIV/AIDS.
Sexual and disrespectful.
Set bound for more mythical tale
It’s the mind that they chose
Being taught designs to stay close.
Words to a failed songs,
Hearts made to be weak.
Depth perception.
Crowned holiday.
A gossip of wind. An accident never occurring,
A tongue dipped in the unvarnished truth, of this poem.
But yet still it will fail.
Sheet music of the winds.
Natures sublime wander lines.
Fine words and insinuating appearance are seldom associated with
Its virtue.
This poem makes no sense.
This poem makes perfect sense.
It is a politician.
A Minster, to a congregation of none.
A klans-men celebrating black history 366 days.
Enthusiastic,
This poem is HIV/AIDS.
Sexual and disrespectful.
2.
A hymn, within the testaments.
This poem will end at once upon a time.
And begin living happily ever after.
It has found the cure to reality.
A constitution of circumstance,
Generosity of soy-earnestness and sincerity.
In the foot-steps of Marco polo.
It seeks to find its enemy and his enemy and shake both their
Hands. A villain. A victim. A voice. A secret.
A crazy calm, soft, warm, almost weightless.
This poem is within spectrum.
This poem is a fierce urgency of now.
This poem is a whisper of a gunshot.
Failing its purpose, this poem is failing its poet.
Failing as it is being written, as being read, as we speck.
This poem is poignant, prolific, generational.
This poem is bullshit, a copycat.
Wants to be famous.
This poem is putting a stop to this poem.
This poem is revealing too much.
It has no point.
It is repeating words found on the yellow brick road.
This poem hates it’s poet.
Its failing its poet.
There is much representation for peace in this poem.
This poem shivers for what is to come.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead,
The rain pours in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this poem
Before it begins.
Once upon a time . . . . .
There was this poem!!
A hymn, within the testaments.
This poem will end at once upon a time.
And begin living happily ever after.
It has found the cure to reality.
A constitution of circumstance,
Generosity of soy-earnestness and sincerity.
In the foot-steps of Marco polo.
It seeks to find its enemy and his enemy and shake both their
Hands. A villain. A victim. A voice. A secret.
A crazy calm, soft, warm, almost weightless.
This poem is within spectrum.
This poem is a fierce urgency of now.
This poem is a whisper of a gunshot.
Failing its purpose, this poem is failing its poet.
Failing as it is being written, as being read, as we speck.
This poem is poignant, prolific, generational.
This poem is bullshit, a copycat.
Wants to be famous.
This poem is putting a stop to this poem.
This poem is revealing too much.
It has no point.
It is repeating words found on the yellow brick road.
This poem hates it’s poet.
Its failing its poet.
There is much representation for peace in this poem.
This poem shivers for what is to come.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead,
The rain pours in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this poem
Before it begins.
Once upon a time . . . . .
There was this poem!!
CHAPTER 2....
We have flown the air like birds and swum the sea like
fishes,
But yet to learn the simple act
Of walking the earth like brothers.”
- Martin Luther King Jr.
POETIC JUSTICE...
1.
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
At a millennium rolling over point,
Baby boomers 1 time, hippies turned parents.
The resurrection of second guessing an illusion of addiction.
Putting another load, having god cleanse our soul.
Complementing aspiration as only I can.
A generation beyond definition
Unconvinced the American dream isn’t a fiction of remedy.
Un-persuaded by the better life toe-to, tin man, and the
heartless lion
Could help us safely down the yellow brick road.
I need to write
Having no patience, to being a constant patient of constipation,
Constipated bullshit.
Flipping flowing words as only words of poetry can.
Writing in the 3rd person, for the 1st is hurting.
Battling the current currents of this poems sea.
Nothing invested in my own opinion.
2.
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
At a millennium rolling over point,
Baby boomers 1 time, hippies turned parents.
The resurrection of second guessing an illusion of addiction.
Putting another load, having god cleanse our soul.
Complementing aspiration as only I can.
A generation beyond definition
Unconvinced the American dream isn’t a fiction of remedy.
Un-persuaded by the better life toe-to, tin man, and the
heartless lion
Could help us safely down the yellow brick road.
I need to write
Having no patience, to being a constant patient of constipation,
Constipated bullshit.
Flipping flowing words as only words of poetry can.
Writing in the 3rd person, for the 1st is hurting.
Battling the current currents of this poems sea.
Nothing invested in my own opinion.
2.
Spoken without conviction, and you wonder why
Children hide in adult bodies.
Living under light colored contacts.
Seeing the eyes of your children’s; children.
In the pupils of my pupils
Where did I go wrong?
Decode tears formed under eyelashes pregnant with guilt.
My ideals kiss lips of smiles.
Normal is a failure of potential.
Mishandling meticulous personas.
Cutting deep streams to my wrist, remembering, how to heal.
Believe ejaculation is the only thing that comes easily.
Spoken word artist.
Non-for-profit preacher of the sorts
Cultivate minds for more mythical tales.
Wicked theology robbing the rich blind.
Trapped in reaction.
Delusions of eloquence.
Purlieu victories.
I need to write.
Bellies Blues by way of Langston Hughes.
Whitman and Maya Angelou.
W.E.B, Emerson.
Eger Allen Poe, Ossie Davis
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
My pen runs rapids before my words escape my lips,
So I’ll suffer for my pen,
In continue of the line of legacy.
Children hide in adult bodies.
Living under light colored contacts.
Seeing the eyes of your children’s; children.
In the pupils of my pupils
Where did I go wrong?
Decode tears formed under eyelashes pregnant with guilt.
My ideals kiss lips of smiles.
Normal is a failure of potential.
Mishandling meticulous personas.
Cutting deep streams to my wrist, remembering, how to heal.
Believe ejaculation is the only thing that comes easily.
Spoken word artist.
Non-for-profit preacher of the sorts
Cultivate minds for more mythical tales.
Wicked theology robbing the rich blind.
Trapped in reaction.
Delusions of eloquence.
Purlieu victories.
I need to write.
Bellies Blues by way of Langston Hughes.
Whitman and Maya Angelou.
W.E.B, Emerson.
Eger Allen Poe, Ossie Davis
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
My pen runs rapids before my words escape my lips,
So I’ll suffer for my pen,
In continue of the line of legacy.
BORN TO SEGREGATED DESCRIPTIONS....
1.
Born during the depression,
Raised in the segregated south,
Against the isolating miles of flat American.
Birth of description gave new meaning by words.
From the torrent shore.
Raw souls,
Hens of hincty.
Mild frumps and downward drab,
Rapt babies in peek-a-boo webs.
The nature of unquestionable dynamism
Scorched and salted earth, barren.
Solo repents defiance to code.
Preposterous thoughts.
Solidify withered vainly.
Occult iconic crows, learn to crow.
Flat back green and easy,
Presumptuous to alter.
Euphony impels turbulence.
Colored hearing sounds darker.
Tantalized catacombs of reverberation.
Born during the depression,
Raised in the segregated south,
Against the isolating miles of flat American.
Birth of description gave new meaning by words.
From the torrent shore.
Raw souls,
Hens of hincty.
Mild frumps and downward drab,
Rapt babies in peek-a-boo webs.
The nature of unquestionable dynamism
Scorched and salted earth, barren.
Solo repents defiance to code.
Preposterous thoughts.
Solidify withered vainly.
Occult iconic crows, learn to crow.
Flat back green and easy,
Presumptuous to alter.
Euphony impels turbulence.
Colored hearing sounds darker.
Tantalized catacombs of reverberation.
2.
Fettered
scrutiny
Rendered unenforceable.
Swathed, admonishing.
Coffin stiff cotton dress.
Bitterness thick’s on.
Vehemently vulnerably vocalized.
The violins that wake me.
The Sunday stillness.
The February paean.
The ticking clocks of tumult.
Honky, nigger, wet back, chink
Oppression is not an acceptance of existence.
If only turmoil could count towards the happiness of our
children.
Thirsted complicity.
Heirs to a struggle.
To divide,
By definition,
Of use in division.
Born during the depression
Raised in the segregated south.
Fettered
scrutiny
Rendered unenforceable.
Swathed, admonishing.
Coffin stiff cotton dress.
Bitterness thick’s on.
Vehemently vulnerably vocalized.
The violins that wake me.
The Sunday stillness.
The February paean.
The ticking clocks of tumult.
Honky, nigger, wet back, chink
Oppression is not an acceptance of existence.
If only turmoil could count towards the happiness of our
children.
Thirsted complicity.
Heirs to a struggle.
To divide,
By definition,
Of use in division.
Born during the depression
Raised in the segregated south.
WITHIN A NAME...
Today my name is ODDITY.
Yesterday my name was NONENTITY.
Tomorrow my name will be affirmative action.
Pushing daises, hooked to kill.
Coiled but ready
Leave scars from the old whippings. Rippled and ridged
Blacks Bitter, they think.
Deep black laugh, like nights thunder. I image as they call.
My friends think my name MISERY.
The police think my name NIGGER.
My family thinks my name LEGACY.
Old master calls me FETCH.
Breath cut out, cut in like a saw cutting wood.
Pushing daises, hooked to kill.
Coiled but ready
Leave scars from the old whippings. Rippled and ridged.
Then he walks way. Big boots.
Black boots, but wrong kind of black.
Bad black, not good black like me and us.
Not good black, like my black.
The skin black, as the blackest ebony wood, rich and dark
And beautiful.
Blacks Bitter, They call.
I had to think to hear the breathing, of night sounds.
That raw night is the name I whisper, and echoes whisper in
Return.
A woman child,
A girl growing up quickly, with hurt and hardship.
Yet my name is of one, many be named FYREE.
I’m Fyree and the other part of my name be the same
As old master.
But is nothing.
I don’t count the back part of my name no more than I count
Old master himself.
No more than I count what they call me.
I hear and I forget.
I see and I remember.
I do and I understand.
Got myself a new name,
God’s pilgrim. Look at me, and my name. my name is Fyree.
Yesterday my name was NONENTITY.
Tomorrow my name will be affirmative action.
Pushing daises, hooked to kill.
Coiled but ready
Leave scars from the old whippings. Rippled and ridged
Blacks Bitter, they think.
Deep black laugh, like nights thunder. I image as they call.
My friends think my name MISERY.
The police think my name NIGGER.
My family thinks my name LEGACY.
Old master calls me FETCH.
Breath cut out, cut in like a saw cutting wood.
Pushing daises, hooked to kill.
Coiled but ready
Leave scars from the old whippings. Rippled and ridged.
Then he walks way. Big boots.
Black boots, but wrong kind of black.
Bad black, not good black like me and us.
Not good black, like my black.
The skin black, as the blackest ebony wood, rich and dark
And beautiful.
Blacks Bitter, They call.
I had to think to hear the breathing, of night sounds.
That raw night is the name I whisper, and echoes whisper in
Return.
A woman child,
A girl growing up quickly, with hurt and hardship.
Yet my name is of one, many be named FYREE.
I’m Fyree and the other part of my name be the same
As old master.
But is nothing.
I don’t count the back part of my name no more than I count
Old master himself.
No more than I count what they call me.
I hear and I forget.
I see and I remember.
I do and I understand.
Got myself a new name,
God’s pilgrim. Look at me, and my name. my name is Fyree.
THE QUILT....
Pathological
Disease // sick
Pathos – suffering
Suffer
Has suffered
Path to destruction
Destroy
Be // come
Becoming destroyed
On path
On track
Suffering – pathos
Logic
We reason
Being reasoned
Being reasoned
We be // come
Pathological
Pause, stop, rewind, press play, turn hindsight, to hiding
sight
Having reason, to being reasoned, the soundtracks, that
sounds
Tracks, to track sound, track and trek life.
Pause, stop, rewind, stop press play.
Pathological
Come // we be
Reason being
Reason we
Logic
Pathos - suffering
Track on
Path on
Destroyed becoming
Come // be
Destroyed
Destruction to path
Suffered has
Suffer
Suffering - pathos
Sick // disease
Pathological
Pathological
1 BRAIN + 1 BRAIN + 1 BRAIN = VIEWPOINT....
I am not dangerous; I am Danger.
I am not genocidal; I am Genocide.
I am David with the sling shot defeat by rock.
A breath of vengeances,
I am death sentenced.
Ankle locked and wiped,
Having took the liberty, to take your liberty.
I am what you fear most of all.
The power
To enrich my intimidations.
Having “THEM”
Clinch the bags, like they never clinched before;
By the near sight of my glare.
Hate talk for savages;
“They” live by numbers, percentages and averages.
As we lay beside
Green pastures;
To think.
My skin
Can somehow allow me to see more cells,
Then sand sees, sea shells.
50 shots divided by 4 cops, equals no jail.
Sean Bell.
Pavements make payments,
Becoming best friends with hard times.
Bad news robs elbows with fiction.
It becomes an instrument in the orchestra.
Politicians and big business men;
Balancing budgets on my back,
And still I cotton pick.
Blame
Congress can’t make progress,
Change the process.
Smacking gravels that bash dooms
Smacking gravels that crack homes.
I am what you fear most.
You see me every single night; on the 10:00 o’clock news
America’s most wanted.
“Broadcasting live, on Fox5 News
There has just been a Liquor store robbery
Suspect Description:
Black Male
5’10
25-30 years of age
Black Yankee Baseball Cap
Grey sweatshirt
Blue Jeans
Construction Colored Timberlands
Armed & Dangerous”
Lethally poison-ness;
To which community I injected myself into.
Yellow tape restricted,
Homicide crimes depicted.
Ballistics,
Shoe laces aren’t guilt proof.
Baggy jeans
Du’rags
Hoodies
Your street corners will never be safe.
I will raise your taxes; welfare, unemployment.
I don’t need a job.
I’m gonna stand here!
I’m gonna grab my crotch!
I’m gonna call your son’s, my Niggaz!
A mothers mistakes..
All fathers denial; gone global.
Manifesto despite principles.
Prefixed the bane of my existences.
Bows & arrows of the Ashanti
From genesis to revelations
Predilection to proclivity,
Tragic theme of heroine struggle, made depictions as
cause & aftereffect.
Iced out, bling bling, cream.
Cash rules everything around me,
Cream is the money,
Dollar dollar bills ya’ll.
Son, dog, you dig’, yo.
Hip hop, rap, slang, ebon-ics.
I am what they fear most.
The formidable contender,
3 rounds against the constant contradictions
A black man.
BOO!!!
I am not dangerous; I am danger.
I am not genocidal; I am genocide.
I am not angry; I am anger.
But most of all I am not their stereotype.
I am my own black man.
The epitome of goals.
Summary of aspiration,
Rise with resolution,
Premonition of promise.
Splash of perfect black tone.
Joshua and the battle of Jericho.
Daniel and The Lions den.
God’s unchanging hand,
Black man; I am my own black man.
I am not genocidal; I am Genocide.
I am David with the sling shot defeat by rock.
A breath of vengeances,
I am death sentenced.
Ankle locked and wiped,
Having took the liberty, to take your liberty.
I am what you fear most of all.
The power
To enrich my intimidations.
Having “THEM”
Clinch the bags, like they never clinched before;
By the near sight of my glare.
Hate talk for savages;
“They” live by numbers, percentages and averages.
As we lay beside
Green pastures;
To think.
My skin
Can somehow allow me to see more cells,
Then sand sees, sea shells.
50 shots divided by 4 cops, equals no jail.
Sean Bell.
Pavements make payments,
Becoming best friends with hard times.
Bad news robs elbows with fiction.
It becomes an instrument in the orchestra.
Politicians and big business men;
Balancing budgets on my back,
And still I cotton pick.
Blame
Congress can’t make progress,
Change the process.
Smacking gravels that bash dooms
Smacking gravels that crack homes.
I am what you fear most.
You see me every single night; on the 10:00 o’clock news
America’s most wanted.
“Broadcasting live, on Fox5 News
There has just been a Liquor store robbery
Suspect Description:
Black Male
5’10
25-30 years of age
Black Yankee Baseball Cap
Grey sweatshirt
Blue Jeans
Construction Colored Timberlands
Armed & Dangerous”
Lethally poison-ness;
To which community I injected myself into.
Yellow tape restricted,
Homicide crimes depicted.
Ballistics,
Shoe laces aren’t guilt proof.
Baggy jeans
Du’rags
Hoodies
Your street corners will never be safe.
I will raise your taxes; welfare, unemployment.
I don’t need a job.
I’m gonna stand here!
I’m gonna grab my crotch!
I’m gonna call your son’s, my Niggaz!
A mothers mistakes..
All fathers denial; gone global.
Manifesto despite principles.
Prefixed the bane of my existences.
Bows & arrows of the Ashanti
From genesis to revelations
Predilection to proclivity,
Tragic theme of heroine struggle, made depictions as
cause & aftereffect.
Iced out, bling bling, cream.
Cash rules everything around me,
Cream is the money,
Dollar dollar bills ya’ll.
Son, dog, you dig’, yo.
Hip hop, rap, slang, ebon-ics.
I am what they fear most.
The formidable contender,
3 rounds against the constant contradictions
A black man.
BOO!!!
I am not dangerous; I am danger.
I am not genocidal; I am genocide.
I am not angry; I am anger.
But most of all I am not their stereotype.
I am my own black man.
The epitome of goals.
Summary of aspiration,
Rise with resolution,
Premonition of promise.
Splash of perfect black tone.
Joshua and the battle of Jericho.
Daniel and The Lions den.
God’s unchanging hand,
Black man; I am my own black man.
THE AUDACITY OF HOPE...
Epitome of goal.
Premonition of promise.
Summary of aspiration.
The fierce urgency of now.
Whispered by slaves as they blazed through trails,
Knocking for opportunity as well, prosperity.
It was a creed; stories rose among Negro fighters,
Written into the founding documents that declared
“Our destiny”
To this nation.
At the top
We stood,
To and for the American prayer.
“I exist. I am not insignificant.”
Yet the creed fell short of existence.
For the story of story tellers.
Four cells & walls echoed echoes hurled to boundaries.
Hang my heads; sorrow for humanity.
The 60’s became known for the crazy,
But the 80’s were worse.
To be blunt,
Crack fucked blacks and
Gave birth to a curse.
The white man dream,
Became the white man’s drug.
The skies bright, the moon misty.
We knew our future, as being told our history.
Screen lined predicted predictions by a gipsy.
By the age of down,
Bells rang out, hall ways cleared out.
Colored signs,
Found new home,
Praising new tone.
Wanting memories to teach me, churnings of butter.
Hymns to old gospel the earth cries grained sand piece me.
Break clod,
Plowing wickedness.
Sounds the trumpets,
Wolves howl against winds.
My soul clings to the dust,
All who dwelt on the rivers of Jordan.
Threshing winepress; dance of mourners.
Our songs of Audacity.
For every to be immersed in forgiveness.
Thirsty for revitalization after years of complicity.
We’d prey
For past sins to be tossed,
Within the tides of forgotten-ness.
There is no future in regret.
Repressed forward.
Reach upward.
Extend outward.
Stand firmly.
Existed to long as ghost for fear of saying no,
Traditions,
As well chasing pavements.
The embalm to American life.
We own the ballets.
We cast the vote.
Plundered battling bloodshed.
Heirs to a struggle for freedom.
Sweet peace instead hard wars.
The fierce urgency is now.
“We hold these truths”
Enough is enough.
Enough became enough,
When enough brought death upon equalization.
Abbevillian exalted enmity. Diviners abashed.
Troubled anguish have overtaken,
The zeal has consumed \.
Word play
To ghost whispers, as our flag is raised.
The Audacity.
Premonition of promise.
Summary of aspiration.
The fierce urgency of now.
Whispered by slaves as they blazed through trails,
Knocking for opportunity as well, prosperity.
It was a creed; stories rose among Negro fighters,
Written into the founding documents that declared
“Our destiny”
To this nation.
At the top
We stood,
To and for the American prayer.
“I exist. I am not insignificant.”
Yet the creed fell short of existence.
For the story of story tellers.
Four cells & walls echoed echoes hurled to boundaries.
Hang my heads; sorrow for humanity.
The 60’s became known for the crazy,
But the 80’s were worse.
To be blunt,
Crack fucked blacks and
Gave birth to a curse.
The white man dream,
Became the white man’s drug.
The skies bright, the moon misty.
We knew our future, as being told our history.
Screen lined predicted predictions by a gipsy.
By the age of down,
Bells rang out, hall ways cleared out.
Colored signs,
Found new home,
Praising new tone.
Wanting memories to teach me, churnings of butter.
Hymns to old gospel the earth cries grained sand piece me.
Break clod,
Plowing wickedness.
Sounds the trumpets,
Wolves howl against winds.
My soul clings to the dust,
All who dwelt on the rivers of Jordan.
Threshing winepress; dance of mourners.
Our songs of Audacity.
For every to be immersed in forgiveness.
Thirsty for revitalization after years of complicity.
We’d prey
For past sins to be tossed,
Within the tides of forgotten-ness.
There is no future in regret.
Repressed forward.
Reach upward.
Extend outward.
Stand firmly.
Existed to long as ghost for fear of saying no,
Traditions,
As well chasing pavements.
The embalm to American life.
We own the ballets.
We cast the vote.
Plundered battling bloodshed.
Heirs to a struggle for freedom.
Sweet peace instead hard wars.
The fierce urgency is now.
“We hold these truths”
Enough is enough.
Enough became enough,
When enough brought death upon equalization.
Abbevillian exalted enmity. Diviners abashed.
Troubled anguish have overtaken,
The zeal has consumed \.
Word play
To ghost whispers, as our flag is raised.
The Audacity.
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