I find myself writing a spokenword piece
And calling myself a poet, but the reality is
All words are spoken, if only in the mind
Misfired and ejected no longer sustaining self
Shouting words to make someone else cry instead
Such fresh picked cruelty, fermented fruit
The intoxication makes it worth it some nights
When I see my younger self in another
Fingers trembling as icicles in the wind
Falling to crash, a sound, they will forget by morning
At times I would win the smoke and mirrors
Mitote reflections, the pages slaughtering shadow
Such blinding it must take to cast one so tall
There is something about the pressure
Of winning, that chokes creativity
My small and kind was almost killed
“You talk like a girl,
Start acting like a boy!”
Is this a world of not enough
Or are we just hardened
And bruised by the tough
That come to kill
All plush things
To crack the bill
And pluck the wings
I continued walking with my friend
Have you ever been spit on from an overpass
For wearing clothes you liked to wear?
He shot him so fast that we marched for peace
I can’t tell which is more tired, this action, or my heart
Cops don’t even have to leave their cars to die
These days, wearing the uniform is enough
Like wearing minority skin has always been.
What a cruel point to make.
Maybe this is all just one big funeral
For God, or the ideas of, that have failed
The idealist in me wants to believe
That poems are prayers that can save something
Certainly not the world, at least, it documents history
At best, it inspires action through tender love
In between hugging and kissing we toss a bucket on the fire
Far too much work to be done, for any one thing
To actually work.
“Trust me man, if you spoke a bit louder, you would win!”
When all the world is screaming, what we miss most,
is a soft, kind, and quiet voice.
by Kevon Simpson © 2015
Come to Write Your Soul Free!
Facebook Event Details!