Peel back my skin & you will find bone.
Bone so white that it drarwfs the paper I scribble on now.
Just like your my bone.
Just like his bone.
Just like the bones of all of those who are black, yellow, red, purple & polka dotted,
my bones are nothing more than branches rooted deep in an idea.
An idea of a man filled with ideas.
Ideas which are seeds, seeds that when planted, grow when watered by heavenly droplets.
And when the rain falls, it will wash the dirt into the gutters & we will pretend that it was never even there.
Just like the innocent bloodshed of invisible African children.
Bloodshed in the name of love?
Bloodshed because men try too hard to be gods forgetting that when everyone at their feet are dead,
the only praises left will be of the voices left remaining inside of their own heads.
And yet we will do nothing about it, because far too many of us only believe life.
But in order to believe life
you must first live.
And living only exist on a dying man's bucket list.
So go ahead, jump out of airplanes in the name of your mother's fathers.
Look at your girlfriend guys.
Let her for once keep her clothes on.
Remember that she is somebody's daughter.
Tell that man or woman how you really feel.
Hold the door for someone you don't even know.
Tell somebody a secret that will let their heart grow;
Grow so large that it burst from them as a shout of joy!
And them let them catch fire and call it the spirit.
What spirit you ask? I know mine.
Not dad, but Father.
And my heart and mind when with You, even if your spirit aint mine, that alone I find is true love.
So go ahead. If you're a brother
be my brother. If you're a sister be my sister.
Cause what the world needs now is lots of smiling faces,
Very giving people
And every single one of us putting together the pieces of the puzzle called peace.
So peace my brothers.
Peace my sisters.
Tonight, let these rough cuts
make us into love wishers.
Copyright © Spenser Jones