A poem about my art. I was born to be a writer, and I love it with all my heart. It helps me through the pain of life, and my dependency on fear. But sometimes it isn't enough, and I need the one thing that can help in those dark times: my people's love.
Holding hands with harriers,
I've broken through a barrier.
Now I am the carrier,
Of something that is meek.
Not as weak,
As some would seek,
But I'm far from my peak,
And I'm still climbing.
All this rhyming,
And faithful chiming,
My art is timing,
And it's ticking away.
But I wish that it would stay,
Until I can repay,
To turn my brown to gray,
Life long dedication.
After much trepidation,
And mental incarceration,
I've learned integration,
A chameleon in the crowd.
My voice is ringing loud,
At my foes true and proud,
Defeat is not allowed,
I will win what I have earned.
I've been charred and burned,
My soul is scarred and churned,
Like it's trapped inside an urn,
Claustrophobic energy.
My very last enemy,
Will see my affinity,
All these violent amenities,
Hope takes a pause.
There's really no cause,
To this central clause,
I recognize no laws,
Full independency.
I feel a certain tendency,
To kill my own dependency,
On this pain that I have been to see,
I'm walking away.
Finding my own way,
Through every day,
When I see you I say,
Hold me down my people.
Just hold me down…
