Email Poem

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I am a writing this letter with my hand, and I hope that you will understand; I want you to penetrate every word and paint them at the center of your soul.

 It's cold out there when you have nothing to share, it's cold out there when your heart is heavy, and your fingers are lazy. It is not what you think, and I want you to get up and sing, penetrate the lines and focus deeply into the lyrical sound and the center of the merry-go-round. Zoom out the other sounds and focus on the line that will take you around.

I am writing this letter with my hand, and I want to take you back to where it all began, some things don’t make sense, but you have to put them in perspective to find out when the drama heightened.

It was never about me, it was more about you, and your ambition to become a powerful man and wear the golden shoe. You could not do it in skirt unless you Walla in the dirt; you had to learn how to clean up water and blood dripping from the beggarman’s skirt.

You start looking at me through my webcam and you see some things that you could not understand, you take some things out of proportion and develop a form of resentment towards me. You didn’t like my face and the rough texture of my hair, so I became the phantom of the human race stuck in in the dungeon catering to your abstract provision.

And the wine glass that you could not hold came crashing on the floor, spilling wine all over the place and absorbing the empty space. My hair unkept, my body un- clean and I had nothing with me that matched with your dream.

I fill the gap in life reminiscing the painful sacrifice and sometimes my hearts swell, but tears couldn’t flow, and my eyes stare in space with a colorful glow and I said to myself what will be next? 

What makes you think that I am lonely when the entire world is filled with glory, the grass is still green and the fish are floating down the stream, the sea is calm, and I want you to meet me at the gate before the break of dawn come and knock at the gate and tell me something good before it is too late.

I will walk with you to the door and then we will walk hand in hand on the shore and absorb the salt air from the sea and listen to my heart singing a silent hymn for thee, there are no words to explain it and I hope that you can understand that there is nothing to gain.

My heart is big, my heart its bold but I can never find the comfort for my soul, I am sitting here with something profound to share, but I just don’t like it over here.

The environment drains my energy and sometime the troublesome people make me feel unhappy, but I continue to hold on. I have a crown and a gown and a plan to leave the town. I want to go sky diving, snowboarding and bungee jumping. I want to meet with my old college friends, my professors and directors to tell the tale of how destiny prevails.

I am writing this letter with my hand, and I hope that you will understand my heart is full, my spirit is fine, and I want you to come and touch the divine; meet me at the gallery at nine and everything will be fine.

 If my heart was for sale, would you prevail? if my heart was for sale how much would you pay for it? I am writing this letter with my hand, and I want you to deliver it to “Uncle Sam "at ten.
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