the pen is not mighty
the lily is not pure

and blood is not vengeful nor beautiful
it is just red

but i like stories


that white shirt you once wore
now yellow with use
that sweater you've had for years
adorned with the patches
of accidents gone by
that scar on your back
from when you fell off a swing
those lines by your lips
the remnant of a smile
and a smile and a smile

I like stories
i love reading yours

there are rabbits on my moon
divinity in my incense
my oaks stand mighty
my sun rides a chariot


park benches donated in memory
hasty scribbles on classroom benches
superstitions about crows and cows
love stories to make word games

i come from a world of stories
where the people are made
of matter and molecule
of memory and metaphor

i like stories
and this one's my favourite

Dear american, I am a 19 year young soul in a vessel that does not belong to myself, but with my exterior, you would say is of the lesser and I understood the immediacy of you putting a target upon my head, and let me announce this to you now that I am not infuriated by this. Why must we still live in a time that as a young black man, I have to work twice as hard to live up to standards your own was never meant to climb up in order reach the bar for. As a young black man, why should I be ashamed of my own intellect, wanting to disguise it by ignorance or to impress you with the dribbling of a ball or the handling of a mic? Dear America, my great grandfather did not have a middle school education, but even in the least that does not make him "another dumb"_" rephrase, an uneducated person, for the work he knew how to do with his hands makes up for those years missed, and the hands of a man like his tells a story your own great grandfather could never tell. To this day I still look up to him, for he had class, he had knowledge, he had wisdom he had God. He had God! Dear America, I will not sell myself short of my dreams just to become another number of your system. Dear American, I wonder if one day you'll understand. The hands that I have to offer you, will not share what my grandpas had. But my brown eyes will tell you mystory. My skin brown skin will tell you our story. My presence will alert every one of you the moment I succeed, you will frown at the thought of another successful black man. Ashamed of your own son, because he let another young black boy beat his own rank. Dear America, why must you be the police of the world when you cannot face your own issues at home? Dear America, I write you this letter in hopes that it Speaks to you. Dear America, I am not afraid. Dear America, I will stand my ground. Dear America, my hands are still held high. Dear American, I wonder how I made it to the end of this poem, because I still can't breathe. Dear America, why have you put the fear in our mother's eyes allowing them to believe that if their sons do not obey you, we can be here one second and gone the next? Dear American, do you realize that this message I am unraveling is too real to go unnoticed? Dear American, do you see that my message is too hard to make up? Dear America

For you my valentine
I can think of no rhyme.
For you, like St. valentine
are history.
As I soon will be, his story.
Let's agree-not to he forced
caught in meaningless circumscribed tradition.
There be no meter measure rhyme nor mission,
which can calm human insatiable desire.
If love be a chess board my fawn.
I do not know what the **** is going on,
here have all my pawns.
Check
My
Mate
Check
Please
Waitress

Capture my king as my queen escapades away, running, fleeing, free.
What possibly more? What other than frail fragile, loosely connected filaments of sin do you see me in? If You deem, what more? My God? My soul weeps for thee as Solomon did 2000 years before a random set of circumstance produced, birthed, this Young soul. Searching gnashing in his forgotten temple.
Attempting to circumscribe with
his own repeating circle of
history
mystery
mystory
my Valentine
my divine
my fine wine.
My God
send a divine flood
to wipe the swine
from my mind.
Bath me in the blood of your
crucified son, for am I not Yours?
What sick Christian symbolism
must I entail to rid myself
from the weeping wall at which I flail.
Why must my words always fail?
Rain down the plagues, hail! There is hale and kale and all.
My blood sweat and tears shall prevail, un-availed, lest pharaoh comes in hot aiming to derail. But with Moses as my guide I will not fail.
I will leave my pursuers in the Red Sea...
Flail,
Flail,
Flail.

I walk the line of a stranger, every day I have walked the Earth it has been nothing but a mystory. The trees whisper their songs of sorrow and days of joy. Their spring of rage and guilt sways like a snake through the never ending path. The mountain's peak looks as deadly as a knife's edge, but to others it seems harmlessly and utterly defenseless. The sun shines upon its snowy tip as the night's eye makes it shimmer. I have never seen the mountain up close, but from afar. Mother says a lady should never gaze upon its ungodly hight. Yet I think differently than others, and often dream of touching the snow tipped mountain.
I too and defenseless against the stories the trees and animals have to tell. I sit and listen like a stary eyed little child would listen to his or her grandpa tell stories of old. Their stories always leave me sitting in the tall green grass as the next one begins their tale. They say the stars tell the biggest story of all, and all the history of the world can be read if one reads with a close eye. The stars have their story as i have mine, but mine may be harder to tell. I listen to the animals tell their stories with ease, but for some reason I can never seem to find the words to tell mine.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢
𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 '𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚎' 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.
𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢, c⃨𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜

𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗂 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.
. .   . 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾.....
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍
𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜
𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍
𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔
𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙
𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜
𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚊 "𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙" 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝗍𝗈𝗈
𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽.........

𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝗂 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝚘𝚍
𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙
𝚈𝚎𝚜 𝚒 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗
𝙸 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝗇𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎
𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝙸𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚞 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝗁. 𝖮𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.

𝙼𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝗌 𝚝𝚘𝚘.

𝙼𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙
𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉.
𝖬𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 (#𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗈𝖿𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌)
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜.

#supportachildbuildthefuture
#herdsmanofprogress
#mystory