i only write in capital letters for a purpose
when my words are silent, i don't speak up
capitalization is symbolism for power

for cries and outbursts of dreams spread forth and shot down
because of the american dream

i only write in capital letters WHEN I WANT TO BE HEARD
to put forth an emphasis on my actions, to mask true emotions through my powerful speech

i want to write your name in capitals just so you know what you mean to me

(YOU)
(YOU)
(YOU)

YOU are ENOUGH

they cannot contain nonconformity, they already have my soul locked up in a cellar, a speechless being with incitement and spark, removed
from the body: but as the transition approaches, so does my representation in society
     I MATTER
I MATTER
              I MATTER
a lifting of faith and aspiring traits, moving the crowds of martyrs amongst the claimed saints

opinionated with my provoked past, and ripped from my own voice, i regained a
spirit indescribable, far more powerful than anger: but instead, harmony and composure
               I MATTER
I MATTER
                 (my voice counts, giving quirk and spark to the souls in awe)

YOU MATTER
YOU MATTER

black lives matter, as in the same sense
/all lives matter/

"m a y b e
w e
a r e
i n t r o s p e c t i v e

o r
p e r h a p s
s e e i n g

w i t h o u t
o u r
e y e s

y o u
  g e t
  d r u n k

o f f
o u r
l o v e

w h i l e  
a
  r a d i o


p o u r s

w a s t e f u l    
b l a s p h e m y

i n t o
  t h e  
w e a k
o f
  m i n d s
"

c . a .

the sun does not always shine on our lives so we
can bask in the rays of ultraviolet light beams. but
somewhere else in the world, the sun
is shining when the sun cannot be visible
in our light. The moon sacrifices itself for the sun
introspectively and mends a constitution of
unity and seizing the battles the sun faced with the moon.
the moon sacrifices itself to let the sun in to warm up
the world during the day. The moon desperately loves the sun.
even on our cloudiest of days someone is looking to the sky and seeing
the same sun, in the fellowship of unity of the world, the sun’s
always somewhere.

c.a.

bitten by the law,
spoken with a hymn
perishing in the grief you’ve
chewed from the bone
that’s just who we are:
monsters with graves of stone
caskets and ashes,
your lips on my neck
breathing is an easy task
but love and ******* is a wreck

c.a.

in the presence of an angel we would cower,
but we have felt injustice and lack of
power looking at you.
Broken and shards of you corrupt the streets,
bruises and stitches cannot contain the
energy of your spark.
You may be a monster but giants never
understand,that the world is full of misery,
and you’re just playing in the sand.
you may be “ruthless”, but those only make
up the letters of “truth”

c.a.

I think we, as artists in every form of the word, take in the world on more than a black and white level as some may. In a way that we are integrated and living treacherously on a tightrope, artists feel like they need to take on the world in senses beyond their control, and their pain is exerted into their work. There is a purpose in our suffering, but our capacity to handle our lives outwardly is slim. To take the time to understand an artist would be talking to a preacher to why he loves God. There is so much backstory to take us to our points, and to know that artists cannot find closure in the things they can see with our eyes wide open, but rather, with our eyes closed and brought forth into taking the world, maybe not our own, on our shoulders, and breaking free in an exertion of prismatic findings in pain.
c.a.