Professors with professions listen on the sidelines to my cryptic confessions like I'm still under the lineage of the plane papacy taking note of my blank boredom.
Don't even know if I deserve to saint this message.

Look warm,
they'll think you're a sky walker,
be hot they'll think you're an odd joker,
cause these days there's no truth to bat an eye on,
Even christians bail on the touchy topics,
I too would rather travel the tropics,
But we can't piece up the peace in these last days.

It's a relative subjective river that you can choose to glide on.
Why do foolish ants labour to protest works?
Perhaps it's a minor issue and we're digging too deep.
Perhaps the devil's wearing denims down with bootleg discussions,
that bow out but never stand in the gap,
Perhaps there are finer issues like my blessings.
Perhaps everyone will eventually find their way.
One man for himself...

I used to pray for mercy,
then I'd pray to messi,
It's like now I prey for merces,
distractions and direction,
promises of perfection,
leave me licking lumps of wounds that the leaven left.
We all want to hear something new,
twerk the message and please the pew.
I can feel the Ichabod as the teaching scratches my ears.

Can a name be enough?
Can a call really save?
Or is it just a ploy to keep the black man a slave?

- nyant

-
I’ve always thought you were like the earth after rain,
dripping, slipping off beaten leaves
strong and steady,  
with light purples gracing,
all around us wrapped up in each other.
You are soft greys filling each moment,
hiding under cedar stairs to hear the thunder voices scream
fighting metal to find the comfort in negative spaces.
You are lightly dancing to beat up records filled with grease
filling me with old spice, and ****** hair gel.
You are clear fall days, falling
keeping us safe from our demons,
who bite and claw, filling the air with their blood.  
You are a burning laptop hiding under the blankets of a movie fort,
the comfort of laughter in dark.  
You are dusty old barns
with sunbeams breaking through in midday,
old worn playgrounds
where small children play.  
You are the empty church,
when others have left
stiff wooden benches
and soft candle rays
bathed in incense and leftover wine.
You are the spring time
changing each day
you are the winter
remaining the same.
You are the flowers sitting outside
striving for sunlight
through the darkest of times
You are the warmth of tea
after the day's hours.  
You are the thoughts in my mind,
the first words spoken in a long time.