I'm caught between being a man, having a dream, and being a fan.
A number one supporter for my brethren.
I can't get to them, long conversations about they day. I can't get to them, detailed descriptions about the way they changed from yesterday.
Think I spend too long scribbling notes and curating songs.
Chasing a dream where I'm standing on top of the world.
But my assigned seat is a pond.
Speaking for the stones, chirping crickets, and bones.
That one small step looks so far while sitting on comfortability's throne.
Distorting the stars that I'm shooting for.
My people need food and more.
I can't spend days shooting through the war for best writer you know.
Running over corpses who owe their lives to those who were there when the system bled.
Some thoughts slow to clear my head:
How many bullets can buy a loaf of bread?
See men have the option of 'by any means' when the children cry to be fed.
The option to paint our fist red...
But the feds are an issue, and I certainly wouldn’t be spared.
The fourth option of sitting on my hands would have me moving like i never cared.
And that's not what my soul and God said while i was scared looking into a future when i wasn't prepared.
They told me to keep writing about my dreams, so as a man...I'll say what they said.