The words flow—
a river running endlessly,
rushing through rapids of bias,
crashing down cataracts of prejudice.

The cat’s out—
out of the bag it leaps.
See that wild, spotted thing?
It’s called poetry.

The beans spill—
tumble from the plates of the young,
passed hand to hand,
from youth to age—
never the reverse.

He held my hand at first spark,  
Guided me through worlds gone dark.  

Shielded me from lies that bite,  
Kept me safe from jealous spite.  

He chose my voice to light the flame,  
From whispered truths to halls of fame.  

Man and beast have cursed His name,  
Yet none can dull His boundless flame.  

You’ve met Him—so have I,  
Jesus, Lord of earth and sky.

It's a free world,  
You choose when you're born,  
then fill a form, an early warn.  

It's a free world,
You apply to meet your end,  
Just sign the sheet and send.  

It's a free world—
so they all say,  
We chose to struggle every day.  

It's a free world,
We picked the pain, the loss, the mess—  
Of course, we chose our loneliness.  

It's a free world,
love.

The poets I saw—  
the ones they envied,  
clean-cut skill,  
perfect in articulation.  

Lips of orators,  
Shakespearean quills—  
bequeathed to their palms,  
riddle-rs.  

They pen on how to change generations,  
gain the strength of bulls,  
surf tsunamis,  
**** racism.  

The poets I saw—  
I can't unlatch their shoes.  
I only type as I wait  
for my soup to cool,  
with a tear and a red cheek.  

I only write  
to simmer the screams  
in my head.