In introspect,
hindsights stumbling over intuition.
Guts hard as a rock.
Minds eye coupling with superstition.
Feeling lost, without a paddle, up the stream facing tomorrow.
Trading calls, seizing, coughing out a scream. Laced with a sorrow.
Silence escapes the harrowed moment.
a siren: opaque.
Privately shamed, a borrowed atonement and a giant mistake.

"White man, white man!" that's what I am.
A melting *** of privilege taken out of my hand.
A white man humiliated, just to misunderstand.
All the while apologizing for my good ol' Uncle Sam:
I am.

A Liberal heresy, a conservative tragedy; an academic policy of preserving its blasphemy.

Racial division, it's what sets us apart.
Literally dividing both sections a part.
You can fight it, accept it, leave it or treat it.
Or refuse to let it dictate, just believe it and seize it.

White man, white man, it's what I am.
A melting *** of privilege I do not understand.
A white man humiliated and set apart.
To ponder their indifference to how I play my part.

Does it **** to ****? Is it luck or love..
Such nonsense must be lust.
Like a mucky muck that ***** me up and leaves a blotch on the conscience.
Does it **** to ****? It's just about
The bunch of lovers and concepts.
A cunning ****, a blubbering bunch
Of chemicals covered in staunchness.

His cognitive botched it
And they watched as they lost him.

Poetry needs to be free, like a flowing river.
Free to follow the current or break apart.
However it can only be as free as the source.
Will this poem, or this river, grow and flourish the land or simply dry up before it reaches its potential?

I used to write to a beat like I had a rap to repeat.
I'd laugh cause I'm weak and I lied through my teeth.

I was not that angry but still upset as I said "**** don't faze me, but I lose my breath." As I lose respect.

Still... I liked to think I had the right to peace,

To change my world or try at least.

Looking back my writtens were livid.
Simplistic, moody blips driven by visions.

Just wicked.

It was time for a change I took a sabbatical, no more syphoning rage now I'm living less radical.

I used to write to a beat like I had a rap to repeat.
But now I laugh and I weep. Live life til I collapse and that's me.

I can't think,
Poems lack a certain tragedy.
My black ink
Blots while the person laughs at me.
The masks seize
As this gets worse and saddens me.
And lastly,
A Trance bleeds the curse so magically.

It's trapping me.

27 poems, 25 years,
And Such a short amount of time
to thank you for your eyes and ears.