poem2

this is a result of the shootings, drug deals, a monthly police meeting and a poetry open mic. I wrote it tonight at the poetry open mic. it may be a little provactive, or harsh. i guess there really was a spirit rising.

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Bleeding hearts, sniffle and cry
our reflections perpetuating a cycle of mediocrity and brokenness
when will the corner be reached where the imagination reigns and our words create reality through their morphing into actuality
my past remains a lurking ghost informing who I am while I make myself available to change this world

release the imagination

match the intonations of the vocal chords with the pitter patter of your feet wiping the streets clean
let's turn those needles of desire into an invitation of healing
The knock of healer sounds on our door

Abuse your body, your mind, your soul in discpline that truth may be reveled in
redemption brought to the herion alley that sits parallel to my bed, cradling the homies seeking healing in seringes of darkness
that merely leave them wanting more
may we be the beacon of hope loving them to treat the condition of their spirit not merely the milieu of their body
the forces at work hide behind our socio-economic, politically obsessed understanding of the media confused culture we swim in
these are the tools at our disposal to help the orphaned child left buy a wandering drunk father who sleeps on my stoop and looks through my trash seeking whatever will placate the fleshly desire
distracting from the shattered place between flesh and bone where the real demons marinate

Can we raise up?, unleashing our unique artistry that has the ability to channel the master creators energy into healing power
It's a call to move from simply spitting rhythms, singing songs, and egaging in endless pontification
into artistic agents on a mission of hope, life, love and redemption
We will raise up