the storyteller's poem

come, come.
soft! sit.
and ponder if you will, of all the world.

the seas, the skies
the land, the lives
the ladies, the guys
the souls, the eyes.

what do they see?
how might they feel?
or
what can you show them?
how can you make them feel?

these were the questions Homer asked himself.
centuries later, Shakespeare repeated.
Poe, Hughes, Morrison and Lee.
and now, enter, me.

I have copied no answers, though my eyes have wandered.

curiosity, in fact, has fed my cat.
long have i wondered what other eyes see
and my pen whispers their lives into my ear
lives of sorrow, pain, indifference and fear.

hear ye and take heed
these stories have nothing to do with me
and have not been told to me
but
does that make them fictional?

...

fix your description of me
until you know the story of the one doing the story-telling.

i dont know where this is going.
i cannot predict the future.

all i can say is that i have a fantastic feeling.
i feel brand new.
humbled. broken and destroyed.
i arise from my own wreckage to be a better me.

looking around, i see all that i have accrued over the past few years: nothing.
therefore, i have nothing to lose.

i can only go up.

wait, i lied.

i did gain something.

a peace of mind.



finally.

and it starts

Before I go on to tell you the details of my little journey, it is probably wise to tell you of my other endeavors. There have been many. All with one main goal: to prepare the citizens for the revolution.
ironically enough, i dont do much talking during these little quest. Wisdom and guidance do not always need words.

they do not know that i am coming. they do not know, yet, of my mission.
they believe that i am dead.
and it has been ten long years since they've noticed me.
but from here on out, my existence can no longer be a secret. if i am to continue my journey then they will find out about me.

but, how do you find nobody?

no title.

you see me and say i'm suspect,

and thats what ive grown to expect.

momma told me that thats the way its always been.

im bad cause im black.

ive got it bad cause im black.

and, honestly, i was quite okay with that.

before.

but now, you're publicly executing me.

taking my life for no reason outside your own paranoia.

tormenting my mother. giving my father the finger.

depressing my sister. and terrifying my brothers.

and somehow, im the suspicious one.

im suspicious when you've stolen the very land you call home.

when you stole the labor it took to make this land into a home.

im the suspect but never once has anyone who ever looked like me killed off an entire race.

nor, enslaved every race under the mighty sun.

i've been bashed and ashamed for every wrong i've done.

but you hide your mistakes and rewrite the textbooks.

no. im not suspicious. you just need a place to vent your inner turmoil.

i am not the killer or the thief or the rapist or the liar or the embellisher.

but i will become those things.

fire vs fire. and i am satan.

i fight with centuries of anguish and mourning in my arsenal.

you fight out of fear.

and the cowards never live.

my people need not stand beside me, for they are afraid too.

consider yourself lucky. lucky that we once sided with Martin and not Malcolm.

but this is a war i can win without them.