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IMCQ Jan 3
I am an open journal.
With a lock long lost.
My pages, riddled with ink,
Lay exposed.
Wandering eyes waver from page to page.
Taking in the tales of lost loves.
Cheering for the stories of triumph.
Learning from listed lessons.
Come all who wish to witness,
Stories of me.
Stories we wrote.

A cover so unassuming.
How to even judge,
Something with so little to show for.
Title-less, addressed to no one.
The grooves and creases,
Spread across the binding.
Better days,
A distant memory.
Be gentler than those who payed no mind.

Pages that lay uneven.
Torn asunder,
Blacked out or burned
Many, left untouched. 
In places, the ink
has bled through.
Some made to be beautiful.
Others, defiled.
These pages, all precious.
Even the pages
I'd like to forget.

Sable seas of ink,
Flow onto parchment.
Bringing life to desolate pages.
With it
The tellings that brought this book to you.
The lies.
The hurt.
The truth.
The remedy.
A reminder to be weary of people,
The exalted who hold the pen above you.

There will come a time
When this book is shut,
Shelved for the last time.
Yet, these stories can drift on the wind.
From lips to ears.
From old to young.
The life I lived.
The Stories,
We wrote them.
My world within paper.
Am I the book, or the stories that began on those pages.
There was gold within me.
You only had to break my heart.
IMCQ Sep 2020
Did it begin with that sunrise?

The one after the rain.

Which words on what day,

Set this into motion?

They're never good enough,

These words.

So close to flawless.

I can't find the right ones.

I can change these words.

But once they're said

Their stains remain.

Bad words.

Good words.

I won't know until it's over.

Bad with good words.

Worse with bad ones.

There's more to say.

But what haven't you heard.

Speak, laugh, cry, whisper.

These words.

They've always been for you.
Found Love, Lost It. Hello paper.
IMCQ Jul 2020
Take of the fruit that thrives here.
Sleep soundly in the sycamore's shade.
In time, what you've enjoyed will replenish.

Open to all.
My garden.

You may find my spiral staircase;
But do not wander beneath my Eden.
No trove exists to entice you.

Twisted alloys sprawl from floor to ceiling.
Life choked out from within its passages.
Shrapnel covered pathways and barbed footholds.

A price of iron.
My soul.

You breathe light into pallid tunnels.
Padlocks crumble under your touch.
Pave your own path through my body.

An empty auditorium, walls ascending into the void.
Center stage, a single flower encased in a ray of light.
Scentless, white, sepals of stainless steel.

It's yours now.
My heart.
It's hard not to love you when you've ignored my every obstacle.
Now take it and leave.
IMCQ May 2020
My imposing figure.
Wrought by iron.
A chained Goliath.
Humming hymnals.
Pleading to a higher power.
Polaris guide us once more.

Break our hands.
To quiet the rattle.
Take our breath.
To silence the prayers.
Beat us down.
To keep us from standing.

The blood that binds us.
Brothers and sisters.
Wash our countrymen.
Their stained clothes.
Impossible to hide.
Tower above them.

My imposing figure.
With its earthen tones
And crimson cuts.
Strikes fear in you,
Because it should.
We are strength. We are Black Americans.
IMCQ May 2020
Take a page from my book.
Don't live to please those who would write you off
For choosing your own narrative.
Why let others write our stories.
Sitting idly by, as they use up the pages.

They forced the pen from your hand.
Take it back.
You know the words better than anyone.
But don't cover up their mistakes.
Tear-filled chronicles, a testament to growth.

When did you last write your own chapter.
You were excited to sign your name, you're the author.
Take up the sheets of paper.
Fill in the blanks.
Leave your mark.

When you read cover to cover,
Were you dynamic?
Did you go off script?
Underlined lessons?
Highlighted cautions?

When you've reached the resolution,
Will you be happy with your account?
Or do you have more to write.
If you have another story to share,
Take a page from my book.
I've read 1,000 tales.
IMCQ May 2020
We spent the night finding the perfect spot.
Only to be too distracted by the conversation,
To notice the sunrise was behind us.
We'll do better next time..
IMCQ May 2020
Footprints in the sand
A tapestry of our waltz
Witnessed by starlight
Take my hand.
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