I think about you. I write for you because you are the hues of my expression. You are the healer to my blues. You are the teether when it’s hard to bite at life’s hurdles. You are the teacher who taught me how to tie my shoes. You cool me off when shit hits the fan and you school me beyond the streets and sheets of love. That to have; I have to give. And that to forgive, I have to start with setting myself free from the pain of yesterday and get ready for what the future will pay. Who are you gift of conveyance? For you take me to a place where no one cares if I am the best but everyone dares to excel and be the best they can be. It’s a place of clairvoyance; where ears translate melodies into words and eyes anticipate colours that burn into unwritten vocabulary.
You are sanctified. For those who don’t write in you, find grace and light in your art. From the sincerity and gaiety of those who confide in you; we are inspired. For the power of your words encourage all, from the poor in belief to the rich in conviction. In you, we see visions of truth and truce. In you we find hope in desperation. For you allow us to talk to those who won’t open their doors for us but will read and feel us when we articulate in hope for reparation. You allow us to connect with the ones we have just as much as the ones we lost. You teach us to let go of regret and to smile at our dismal pasts. We are the pillar of tomorrow and you are the bolstering cement we write inside of waiting for it to dry so that one day the world may read the inerasable.
Black Roses 