I don't want to be down, but my heart is too heavy for my eyes to look up

I don't want to be found, not by others but, I'm hoping I can find myself
and
I don't want to be loud, because the ones that are, they don't often look like us

I don't want to be me, as a child being seen not heard, as a black not seen at all
and
As a man that bleeds, with scars that cry, and scabs that call for help that's not coming

I want to be proud, but of me I can't, I don't know what to be proud of
and
I want to be free, and I have the key to these chains, but these burdens start to feel like hugs

I hope you're praying for me, I hope you're praying for me, lately it doesn't feel like enough

I hope you're praying for me, I hold my hands in the dark, my feeble heart is searching for (what?), can you keep praying for me ?

I pray you're telling the truth, lately it doesn't feel like enough,

I hope you're praying for me

I hold my hands in the dark, my feeble heart is searching for love

Nobody's praying.

my hands remember
my hands remember

They remember the strings, lined across the frets

The remember the keys and how the chords connect

The remember the day, the first time I held a cigarette

and yet

today my hands forget...

Gunshots go off in the head of a man with a gun in his hand

He pictures an unload of the clip, and a picture of the clothes he was in, only picture to remember him by.

And it's nights like these when he's filled with regret that he thinks of wound drawing blood from his head.

                                                 |death|

find solace in his demise

Common that we treasure the joys of our possession when they are lost–
   thereby we try and savor–reminiscing–the freedoms we used to know, as to the soul, our slaver to fear consumes us whole

when will we turn around?

It hurts like a heart held in your hands
how mine rumbles, facing tension it cannot bare

  When, not if, it bursts, and gushes tender
I'm left no longer a living man

        I cry "gentle," and you squeeze
        your nails like fangs, the serpent
       from which I ask a relief

holes in my heart that I cannot mend

  limp, like the lying antelope as it surrenders
the lion's jaw, thick in the firm of his neck

  so, you've cornered me in feelings,
with your kisses as your canines, I–

unwillingly accept

Do we value money more than the time it takes to achieve it?
We waste our lives for it?
I waste my life for what?
My priorities for what? Missions, goals, dreams, for what?
I waste life on things I find more interesting than essays about people long put in the dust.
I hunger for highs, good times, but I get lows, work is important but how much–
for certain?–
I do not know.
I draw back from application, while wishing for balance. Instead of working hard I found it easy to survive off of talent.
I want to learn,
yet haven’t grown,
to find the equipoise of work and play. I know what I do instead.
I spend my time lazily, convincing myself at every turn that tomorrow will wait for me,
that I’ll have time
and
enough time to finish everything, and everything well.