Why is it that I can’t suffer in silence?

A blade of grass has more strength than me, stepped on all the time, defecation in steaming streams…

But no tears. No screams.

Writing is the super ability God has given to me, but fear steals my presence from the gift in me

Terrified of sounding weak, or sustaining a lyrical breach, nobody will take me seriously if I don’t Sodom and Gomorrah all performances and always kill everything 

But the pressure sometimes feels like it’s breaking me

I keep looking around, expecting to see diamonds, but my handprints are opposites of Midas, I lift them up and whoops something else is dying

I keep winning at stuff I’m not trying at, but as soon as I give it my attention it runs away from me like a grade school crush to the other side of the class

Do you know what that’s like?

My mom is sun 

My dad is night 

I’m equipped to inhabit any environment, no child left behind, but I still can’t seem to get it right

Poetry is starting to feel like my only outlet, although no power’s coming out yet, she understands that I’m a complicated love, never threatens to make me her ex…

I feel like I missed the peak I never reached, all this power quivering to be unleashed, you should see me when I spazz out and get angry, there’s a glimpse of the indomitable titan that I can be… or once was… my career took off and exploded without me…

I’m just dancing in the shower of sparks the fireworks of my dreams left behind.

Sometimes I wanna call my cousin and share my complexities, but I always second guess it, because I never wanna disappoint or discourage her

I was supposed to be the strong one

I don’t get it

Now I’m Andre three thousand

The outcast sibling

This emotional well is endless, even when this verse is over it still hasn’t ended yet

I’m still questioning, is this poetry or the cadence to reader’s digest

Can you pinpoint the tip of a flickering candle?

That word just on the edge of your tongue?

That fond memory just out of reach?

If so, then maybe…

Just maybe…

You can see me.



River’s Choice

The river used to flow for me.

Tired and worn down, lips cracked with the merciless blood leaks of ambition… the dry riverbed would flow for me. Would grace me with the refreshing honor of parching my thirst and revitalizing my skin.

My invitation was open ended like the fat man’s appetite, never rescinded like glory in the afterlife, I would often make my way there after night. Hidden in shadow but spied by the discretion governed pale eye of the moon. Under cover of light and darkness I would whisper the gray of my heart out and the river would flow for me. Into my mouth, over my brain, through my eyes, across my back…

I was never ashamed to be broken because I knew the river’s affection for me began in eternity and continued on into forever.

Very often it was the weight of identity in my mind which drove me to my knees in defeat… needing the coolness of the river, but forcing myself to endure the heat. Desert sand began to define me like a dictionary written in braille with seashells in hand. I couldn’t see well enough to stand. Burden bigger than the sea whale Hancock threw off the land.

I collapsed at the river for healing again…

But that day my awareness of my neediness and spoiled gain played against me…

The river doesn’t flow for me anymore.

Dear Maya


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.

The Great Poet

Who can still the charming tongue of a Don Juan?  Who can take his lyrical elegance and spin it into meaningless nothingness?

No one.

Men scoff.  Ladies swoon.  Empires are built upon the pile of broken hearts left in his wake- love becomes a sickly addiction under his rule.  He is- The Great Poet.

He is masterful word use personified.  Surpassed only by God in his verbal ability to create- God crafted amazing from the absence of absence, using only Himself in the midst of less than nothing… The Great Poet then took up his pen where the Good Lord ended.  Once the wheels of creation were formed, The Great Poet spun those wheels into cupid tipped aeroplanes.

Who can still the charming tongue of a Don Juan?  Who can take his lyrical elegance and spin it into meaningless nothingness?

No one.

He retired himself– sentenced his own soul to his own grave.  There is something mesmerizingly sober about cleaning the blood of a still pumping heart off of your sleeve… It makes you question yourself.  Gives you penitence to ponder that, even in the unlimited world of words, there might be some greater thing.  Something worth going after.  Something more valuable than exulting in the sheer joy born of fashioning heat seeking love comets for the searching hearts.

There is more to the life experience than deathly impact.

And thus The Great Poet resolved not to be.  His final words of love influence in this world were sacrificial… Willing to die to a love he yet longed for that he may not destroy countless innocents in their search for it.  The Great Poet has no equal- no verbal match with his poignant lexical personas that tickle tongues and entice hearts… There is no opposing match who cannot be swayed by him- thereby dissuading him from genuine pursuit.

For the first time in all of history… Silence deeply abode in The Great Poet’s mouth… Resistant to charming provocations, unimpressed with the impressive… Waiting… Or rather- his heart was.  He had moved on, but his heart… His heart retained a secret hope…

Then one day a bell rang.

It was in the last rays of a gilded sunset haze… The brush strokes dipping into nature’s sprawling assortment of enchanting pigments, and beautifully tainting the pure gold of the darkening air…

The rings raced back before their appointed time to announce the sunrise.

The Great Poet stirred.  Remaining speechless less he influence reality with the forceful power of his potent love words, he watched as Miracle took hold of his body.  Raised him up out the coffin, dusted him off and, promised him forever tones when the sounding bell stopped.  Still yet speechless he let Miracle take his hand, and slip it into another one.  Into a softer, more feminine grip…

And that’s when the panic hit, but before The Great Poet could let a fearful word slip off lips Miracle spoke again.  “What has been- is no more.  The man that died is still dead- you are altogether new.  And that is why she is here… Exquisitely crafted for extraordinary newness… beyond your word brilliance, yet brilliantly attuned to it.  She can handle it- you can do this.”

And then- in perhaps the GREATEST act of faith in his entire life- The Great Poet believed in himself.

Who can still the charming tongue of a Don Juan?  Who can take his lyrical elegance and spin it into meaningless nothingness?

No one.

Not even The Great Poet himself… which is why he ended that chapter… and started being himself.

For truth… for love… for God… for her.

Ever lyrically matchless, unrivaled in loving passions, and altogether the acme echelon of a class all his own- salute when you see him, and bow deeply when you see her.

All hail-

The Great Poet.

Let… Words… Few…

Let your words be few…

If you don’t what to say

Let your words be few…

When you know exactly what is

Let your words be few…

When doling out your vast knowledge

Let your words be few…

When you are on top of the world

Let your words be few…

When you are floundering in the plummets

Let your words be few…

Let your words be few…

Wisdom is found in the mouths of constructive silence.



~The Wordsmith