Another installment from "Violations Of Black."

I wrote this poem at the end of last year. Most of this stuff comes pouring out of me at an alarming rate in order to finish one poem. It's rare now to actually sit and write a few of these, without overthinking and analyzing what it is that's going into it. Yet, I find that when I do write these, they are another way for me to express obviously, the inner parts of myself that for some reason, I cannot relate to in personal conversation with anyone. Most of the images come from a place within me that I might not be all that comforted by, or am most comfortable with. But, I figure part of the creative process for me to truly write as I do, is to color words to a point that lead somewhere, but leave enough room for people to interpret how they need to. Anyway, here is one of the latest poems from "Violations Of Black."

not i and never me

12.02.08

i can’t see the blindness in front of me;

believe the darkness - whole or not?

to not crush the dread or fear;

bound to unreason of what I believe—

treason!

if I faded into the years of time,

how would my convictions

stand for me on their own?

i can’t hear the lies outside of me!

they push their edges of pursuit

into my eardrums and pupils dilated.

i grip and grasp for a sound mind

and a young body to exist from.

the dirt around me begs me

to grab onto the fallen blood drops;

running from my abused heart.

yet, the frantic balance of life

between death begins to suffocate.

i dream of sensation when all

sounds become silent.

my eyes shut out the scenery,

and my hands open wide

to feel air on my fingers.

the inflammation of my serenity

dies without warning—

i can’t see the blindness in front of me;

but I can feel the hatred

tightly consume the shards

of what’s left of my faith.

the ransom called my life

has not paid for what i assume—

chases me through moments

of happiness and confidence.

the ground cries out for my fingers

to grasp it ever so gently—

the blood lies waiting in drops;

waiting for coagulation.

perhaps the death and life

of wounded faith marks a man—

forever!

what is that open handed destiny?

what is that knowledge of choice?

I do know…

answers come from

not i, but who was!