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Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages 
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only, 
for the birds in the wind.

He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows dust on his face.
His father runs over,
 “Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”

The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered, 
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky... 
Where the freedom bird’s flown.

At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.

Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art, 
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay. 

While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...




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Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
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