Almost Made It

It’s like someone played the wrong chord on a vital organ… now I can hear the rising score morphin and taking over. Taking over the senses it connects to, it connects four because the clouded eyes behind these glasses are pourin.

Somewhere, in a garden hidden inside a forest, a flower falls…

A hitch in the step of sunrise, not strong enough to break into dawn, the darkness of the void is granted more time. Unintended benevolence, ignorant of what’s ahead of us, fishin for love with negligence, forfeiting our inheritance, trying to attain a better trust. Empty handed in the end, facial expression incredulous.

Like a roll of thunder, the flower crashes powerfully to the ground…

The bees lose passion for their honey… Badgers crawl from the cracks and crevices to lie dejectedly on the sand… the deer come down from the hills… Butterflies self identify with the cocoon… there are tear drops on the leaf tips. The dew of a morning that will either never come, or never cease. It’s only Tuesday, but the pews are already filled again. Completely unsure of what to pray, just aware that there’s a fresh crack inside and they don’t know how to fix it.

The broken flower rolls, idly, across the ground… slowly losing life yet captured in the twilight of ineffable beauty… there is no redemption in this- and even if there was, it’d be unnecessary.

Every petal isn’t meant to be saved.

Unlimited

There’s a hero in there… somewhere.

I know this because I can’t sleep without dreaming of people I want to inspire and I can’t be awake without seeing maxed out potential all around me. Sometimes I feel like lost poetry in motion, emotionally charging for creative assault and battery. I feel the coursing rivers of a curious strength in me, but the clouds across my mind have me feeling like my undiscovered gifts are a hidden disease.

I’m not aiming to please, but it feels like I missed the mark. If I don’t stop it quickly the ghostly burden of failure before enduring will drive me to my knees. There’s a hero inside me somewhere, but I feel like my super powers are super used to stay super sane. The picture of mediocrity in a different frame. Measurable discord in the membrane…

But in the quiet moments of my thinking… that hallowed space between one thought and the next… a mighty force deep in my soul crackles with power and vision. The voice of God pours through and I’m reminded that the battle isn’t the fight- it’s the perseverance. What? Easy to say for You Almighty God! You don’t have to deal with the doubt in my thoughts… you don’t have the burden of being blessed with something so incredible that you don’t really have words for it…

I say there’s a hero somewhere inside me, but I’m not sure I’ve earned it… the right to use that word. But then again- how can you earn the right to something you were born with? I didn’t choose this- creativity, vision, hope- I woke up with it.

It’s me.

There’s not a hero somewhere deep inside afterall… because the hero is me already.

Dear Maya

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Dear Maya…

It pains me we never met. It was an ordinary Wednesday, til I caught wind of your death, now I’m distressed- fingers running through my hair and getting lost like broken barretts. I would never claim to be your greatest fan, but the breeze that blew through your cage as you sang, carried your scent of greatness through time and space over to me.  It was like a seed of your love DNA was reframed and painted an awkardly strange yet desirable portrait in me.  The only thing I wanted to be… was your grandson.

Not in the legal, social sense, but in that special way that sometimes happens between two people… You see, I had this fantasy- and in it… I would walk up to you. Hesitant. You would smile. I would smile back. Then you’d take my hand and I’d cover it with my other one. We would look deep into each other’s eyes and see the kindred light shining the Morse code of the poetic mind in flashes of brightness that out shined the sun and made it look like tire rubber. And then, before any words were spoken, we would just… know. I became your grandson; And you became my grandmother.

The next words will probably make people scoff at me, but the pain of your passing is the anesthetic protecting me… I never read any of your books, never memorized your classic pieces, but I was fascinated by you as a person and how you taught the believers about believin. Truth be told, in every interview and recording I never saw you as old, but as living poetry. Every word, every breath, every phrase, every inflection of imparted wisdom, was literary excellence dipped and baptized in the Heavenly Nile- I fell in love with love off of your FREESTYLE!!

But now… like a confused caterpillar trying to get out of its shell, my heart is cracked with grief. Trying to rake away the sentiment that everybody leaves right when I need the strength to stay free. I don’t know where they store the tools to shift heart gears, but when I read that you died I shed real tears… I’m not a snail in a shell, I’m a caterpillar in a broken cocoon… but I’m not sure what’s coming through. Can’t tell if it’s a butterfly or something underdeveloped… I was hoping that one day you would tell me.

Dear Maya… I love you. I never met you, but I love you… that’s what your legacy is all about isn’t it? Love. And purpose. To cradle in your arms a lost and aching generation and tell them it’s okay to walk in your footsteps, as long as we yield control of the road to God and how He paves it.  Your words… your heart… your spirit… were aMAZING… I’m praying to be like you- the hero I loved. Which is probably why this hurts so badly. I would gladly trade any of my successes for seconds to look you in the eye and tell you…

I love you Grandma Angelou.

If My Love

Have you ever been in love?  Like truly, oh-my-goodness-what-was-life-before-you in love? If so then you know the pain that comes with it. The sheer agony of trying to verbally capture an accurate snap shot of this master chapter of freedom that your heart is in.   Listening to love songs in different genres and making up lyrics that sound like you’re on one.

Like, baby if my love was a country single I’d hee haw til my mouth was raw and then kiss you with the pure essence of who I really was. I’d dance in the barn til you came out, set the hay on fire, then try to make love before it all came down.

If my love was a hip hop lyric, I would hope you hear it and feel what’s missing- namely- me. My hand in your hand, and my eyes firmly planted in yours, cuz I can only grow from the waters of your shores.

Or, better yet, if my love was a jazzy boom bep, I’d ratatatat,  til you skee doddled my step. Bada, bada, boom, bada, bada, boom. Join me for a spin around the room.

And just for kicks, if my love was a Gospel hit it might sound like this: I’m blessed in the city,  I’m blessed in your bosom, blessed when I come and go… blessed with your kisses, blessed with your lovin, and blessed to be the one you trust with your heart to hooooollllld…

This is the type of thing I could do all day. Spin silly phrases into same minded stanzas of loving proclamation- if you have a love you hold dear,  and your mouth forms words, don’t hesitate to let them out… your heart passion needs to be heard.

Duck Eyes

I’ve been ducking tears so long I failed to realize I’d slowly begun falling in love with heartache.

These tear ducts have become quacks like real ones… Because before, their actions meant I had learned something, but now the tear drop action just means I’m actin. Theatrical social performance to verify that I too have vilified passion, and that love in any form causes me to squeeze my eyes shut and move on past it.

The idea of falling in love is propped up by the idea of not falling- so when the opportunity for potential authenticity comes calling I doubtfully stand my ground until the sound of my pounding heart crashing into the street like a star knocked off a Christmas tree sounds through my being with resounding confidence.

Once again the tear has won.

Me.

Though I hear the voices of many here, when I open my eyes it’s only me here.

The drops splash down out of hopelessness from whence they come, and some instinct compels me to duck…

But because I never actually moved, my tearful addiction overtakes me in a rush and I slide down with the emotional flush…

A waddling prisoner of these tear ducts.