i have a pen
i have written my own story
i read yours
it was narrow sad predictable
on so many levels
it did not predict my flight
i wrote it over the text offered
i spoke it softly looking at the sky
when it seemed impossibly far away
my story of my self & the stars
the stars are closer my pen still moves
on still water in storm in the dead of night
line after line of code
prayer cartography midwifery finessed
hexes my own exorcism of demons
tied to pages & then set on fire
deconstructed by my clever tongue
delivered directly to my executioners
who are surprised I can see them
know that they are naked & have
lost my fear of them
i have written the danger of knowing
into the story like a character flaw
it may be the death of me
but I will see it coming
in my story i am awake
with loaded desert eagles
when they come though the door
only i leave the room
i am not where you left me
nor am i what you expect to find
i am off the reservation
coloring outside the lines
speaking during the movie
telling you the monster is in the closet
i am not in the cage
the cell the grave the asylum
i am a free range radical
the ghost in the machine
hiding in plain sight
the spook behind the door
the heretic
who remembers to remember
out loud hard to kill multiplying
the reasons i exist thrive find air
in the vacuum you wrote for me
i am not on that page
i flew the coupe wrote a sonnet
ate a haiku read the world &
spit back text that resist being
conquered rejects borders boxes
chains narrow tales the rules of
tyrants & naked executioners
i am not where you left me
nor i am what you expect to find
i have a pen
i have written my own story
Reblogged this on A.Nzinga's Blog and commented:
For my strivers, one from the archives to add to my new Brick House Collection
Shando!