I’m grateful for the poets: The best of their time:
Maya, Langston and the lives they put in rhyme.
Filled books by the stacks for the freedom of expression.
Rose above racial barriers to land in their profession.
It’s serene that now I’m able to see their words work with these eyes
because they paved the way and kept the focus on the prize.
I realize, I too, can surmise,
manifest and prophesize,
contest and analyze,
profess and romanticize.
My goals. My dreams.
My truth? It beams.
I’m glowing and it’s showing
through the cracks by any means.
There’s hope in knowing what’s been done so that’s where I’ll start.
But don’t mind if I deviate cause in the end
this is MY art.
And this is MY heart and this is MY beat.
And my words may be jumbled before they get neat
but still have a seat, strap in for the ride.
Allow me to entertain, inform, and provide.
A feeling, that yearning.
There’s nostalgia in returning
to the roots of poetry but be more discerning.
Of what stays in the margins of what I create
as opposed to what works to fill every poetic palate and plate.
These words hold weight and I hope to keep you fed
on ink that marks from catharsis and a dessert of maintaining a leveled head.
I know that in this world I’m not alone but instead I’m thinking:
Maybe I should step off the path everyone else is taking,
pick up a pen and create my own.
