Pens Century

Some have the right to bear arms But I appreciate pens rather then commotions, Homicides, aiding in brawls, Or in middle class genocides , car alarms, sirens in the distant horizon Of my suburban neighborhood Hearing echoes of shots firing. Some folk’s fiend for resources I creep and hunger for lines and ink, Rather than the staggering alcoholic Begging for free drinks. Lines can heal hollow insides, Congested with negativity I the young chap run to creativity. I never ran home but rather run to those black and white pages, Pages that don’t judge my past activity or the thoughts in my noggin, Knocking down metaphors calm my soul I climbed Mount Everest, I’ve survived marches, hostile riots, Doors slammed in my face Which are buried in the red sand in my left hand stapled together with leather bonding, Paperclips and rubber bands. I breathe to write, the privilege to breathe free oxygen purchased from Senegal and western coastal castles I play with canvases and paint like Monet’s pastels Equivalent to my revelation of secret memories Stored and lived from three years less than ¼ a century I could have been a minor in the upper Marlboro penitentiary writing letters to mamma, or fathering multiple of multiples of seeds Caused by the seduction of the cunning black mambas , but I chose the right to tote a composition book and a few pencils, I respect the past but refuse to emulate and imitate the other writers tracing history as a toddler colors outside the lines , or using stencils. There is a new manuscript that I carry under my arm, that reminds me that the third times a charm.