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.
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