There your body hung
And all you left was a note
And all it said was *I'm Fine.

If all men want
is an ******,
they'd stay home.
DIY

*** isn't one-dimensional
neither are we.
The goal is
reassurance,

Reassurance we
aren't monsters
That we're interesting
and attractive

That rejection is only
happenstance
and that someone is
willing to be vulnerable

if only for the night
with us.
Someone only
needs us

and we need them.
Possessive and jealous?
To keep what is ours,
our purpose.

Our purpose is
simple.
To be wanted,
to be accepted.

311

It sifts from Leaden Sieves—
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road—

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain—
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again—

It reaches to the Fence—
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces—
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack—and Stem—
A Summer’s empty Room—
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them—

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen—
Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts—
Denying they have been—

As we walk,
The grass bends beneath our feet,
The stars whisper secrets we do not understand,
And the wind beckons us towards something.

What is it? We don't know, but keep walking south.

South toward good days with plenty, in a pursuit of peaceful nights, with good men, and fulfilled dreams.

We walk this desert in hope of escaping this conflict we were born into,
in order to find rebirth through those coming after us and from us.

So we walk.

Walking against the grains of sand, looking for better days, with better way.

Such is the nature of our journey.

We swim in a sea of uncertainty, praying not to drown.

Capturing every moment so that it will not be forgotten, so our story can one day be told.

We appreciate cuts and bruises along our way so that even when we grow old they will tell of our journey.

I turn towards my wife who carries our unborn child, and I tell her, "We will name her 'our hope'."

And she will know how we gave up our discomfort for her sake, how her presence brought us a state of determination and stubbornness.

How she gave us hope.

When she is young she will see our well worn feet disfigured by distance and hellish conditions.

She will ask in astonishment, "What, happened?"

And we will tell her of our journey.

But she will see but not understand that we carry the weight of the past in our feet.

That our walk is still heavy and are days are always long.

Yet eventually she will see Him through our suffering, because even though our trials are not as great, our feet are like his hands and feet, they are an image of sacrifice.

Your perception of me pre-existed, you saw black and you felt danger, you saw my skin and with it painted a personality from the prejudice of your mind.

You don’t know me, yet you assume that I am just like every other dark skinned man out there.

So that is why I feel angry when you cram yourself in the corner of elevators, if you could only realize I am the one who is truly backed into a corner, provoked by your ignorance, until I become what you painted me.

With your judging eyes, cautious smiles, and nervous actions you made me this way when in the beginning I was just me. Now after all you have done, and all I have done, I’m just trying to be me again.
I just want to be me.