Hello Prose family

For the last two weeks I have been looking to hear from Danceinsilence (William Pate).When I didn't hear back from him I checked on here and hospitals in NC and on Instagram. Nothing until today. I decided to call the police and had them to do a wellness check on him. The police called me back and told me that he passed away on the 25th of July but they found him in his apartment on the 28th. His investigation is pending and they wouldn't tell me how he passed. He was 76.

He was a lot of people friend on here so please leave your memories for his soul to take with him. I cried enough tears to fill a coffee pot and my face is swollen. Please give tribute and check out his writings. He was a genius and the coolest person I knew, and he will be missed! :(

F

You have a stern shell

But those close to you can always tell

That you have a huge heart

Some would even call you a piece of art

Dear dad,

Happy fathers day! I know we haven't been on the same page lately, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You took my siblings and I in. You dealt with our breakdowns and screams of pain with love and love only. Love was a foreign concept for us then, but you gained our trust and opened our hearts. You witnessed my struggles firsthand, and you guided me on how to cope with them. I know you will never cease to love me, regardless of how many times we fight, so I need you to know that it's mutual. I will love you regardless of what is thrown at us. Because dad, you are worth it. My family, is worth it.

Love,

Kendall

Sunday morn, skies that mourned,

wrinkled blankets, undone laundry,

notes that piled, lectures paused,

plates and bowls, last night meals.

Seasons changes, fall and rains,

falling apart, piece by piece.

Save me, please, screamed to the skies,

begged and hurt, lone in a crowd.

Deep inside, something changed,

life felt different, so did I.

What once was, what now is,

what would be, all blurred in one.

Barely human, days all same,

can't be machine, feelings clawed.

Bewitched in a maze, no way out,

dark that stayed, lights that frayed.

Would I leave, this game of hurt,

or would I stay, forever and frail?

Shall I try, when all things fail,

or just let go, as fate may plead?

But I will wake, to another day,

for dawn may break, and the sun may rise,

birds may sing, and the rains may pour,

nights may fall, and the cold may creep.

I will wake to another day.

I have the same recurring dreams. I know where I’m at and I know what I am wearing. What I don’t know is why am I back here, again.

In my dream, I’m about 7 years old, with a school girl outfit. It’s blue with a white color.

I’m on a road surrounded by mountains, lots and lots of mountains.

There’s a wooden house just before a cliff. A Guamuchil tree sways near the front door. I can hear it swaying back and forth. The breeze is so fresh. The smell from the tree reaches me and I take a deep breath.

Sweet and smooth.

I feel peace.

I am standing on the road alone.

The breeze travels from my face to my feet. It wraps around my foot. The once sweet smell of guamuchiles grabs my ankles and pulls me toward the cliff. I struggle to grab on anything but the roads are clear, the ground is clear, there’s nothing I can hold on too.

At first, when I was a child, and when the dream became clearer, I fought with every might. I tried so many things to release me from the hold, but I never could.

But now, I don’t fight it anymore. I let it take me.

It pulls me to the edge of the cliff and when I look down, I see a dry arroyo waiting for my splattered body to fill it as water once had.

Just before I hit the ground, I wake up.

Since I was a little girl, this dream replays in my head and haunts me in my sleep. It’s one of many dreams that are so vivid but I cannot control. I have learned to identify when I am dreaming, a tool I learned through self-meditation, but this one, I just can’t change and seems so real.

I always wake up with questions.

What was in the house? Why the tree? The smell seems so familiar but I’ve never been next to a guamuchil tree. I have never even seen one.

But my mother has.

Since I started to work on our relationship and allowed myself to accept her venting to me with minor judgement, my mother has opened up about her childhood.

I think I have been dreaming her all these years. Her trauma. They say that trauma, although we don’t physically live through it or witness it, our mothers, pass it down through birth. A little of our mother, our grandmother, and so forth, have been embedded in us since birth. Their memories, their pain.

The Guamuchil Tree was not too common in her neighborhood growing up. A man, a family friend, had a huge Guamuchil Tree outside of his home. My grandmother would tell my mother to cut down strands of the sweet fruit and take her into the city to sell it. She had mentioned this family “friend” so many times while I was growing up that I never really paid attention to who he was. He was a nobody. A molester, a rapist, a demon. But my mother talked about him as if he was just another uncle. From the recent stories my mother has vented to me, he molested her and my grandma stayed hush about it. They needed to sell guamuchiles, after all.

My mother kept going back, and he kept molesting her.

When my mother was 12 years old, she became pregnant. She claims that it was another man. A man her mother was dating at the time. She claims he died a long time ago, but I have my suspicions.

I’ve learned that it’s common for a child or adult to suppress the memories or feel guilt or disgust with themselves and that is why they remain quiet about their offenders. I wonder if it was him.

It would explain why the sweet guamuchil wasn’t so sweet in the end.

A start to my story is a simple walk.

Around my house then stop to talk.

A simple conversation, we had a grin.

And that's where our walking and talking will begin.

We walk and talked every day.

We gathered more people as we went on our way.

Months turned to years and still it was fun.

Until one of our walkers was hit by a stray gun.

A bullet from nowhere made the walks come to an end.

Now we meet at the hospital checking on our friend.

The gunman was captured, our friend passed away.

We haven't gathered to walk and talk anymore, to this day.

I drive hard for what I believe in. I make my mind grind from outside of the box to within. I beg, plead, and borrow. I search like there is no tomorrow. I depend on help when things get rough. I try to convince and struggle Until it's more than enough. I set my soul aside to get you to see what I believe. I constantly get put down or knocked to my knees. But with the Grace of God And any blessings I have saved. I might just convince someone to care and behave. To reach way down in their spirit and help someone in need. Naturally feel their urgency Before they begin to plead. Fistchallenge4kids is my way To give back To help homeless children and shelters with things they lack. Since 2016, I did the grind on my own. I made over 500 t-shirts for children and people with no homes. With or without help God will provide. I hope he touch some Angels heart To help us with this T-shirt drive.

Poet, soldier or king? Everyone can be laid into one of these categories. Currently, there is a quiz going viral based on the song "Poet, Soldier, King" by the Oh Hellos. If you haven't heard the song, I heavily suggest you take a listen, especially if you are fond of Celtic rock/folk. The subsequent quiz, which I have linked below and also suggest you take, will put you in one of these positions. At first, I found this to be just another personality quiz, and I went in with confidence that I would get the result of Poet. My, was I shocked when I received at the very thing I hid from: the King. At first, I was confused, because I am a poet, I am a writer, my weapon is my words.

However, as I stared at myself in the mirror later that night, I realized something. I stand, with a straight back, my shoulders tense and heavy, as if carrying the weight of the voiceless and nameless. My eyes are heavy with the things I have seen and the pain I have felt. There are bags underneath them, hollow, that have become prominent after making sacrifices and difficult decisions. The crown may not sit on my head, but I have felt its weight since I was born. I have dressed up as the poet, but I have always been and might always be a tired King with relentless hope and duty.

I hid from it for so long, but the crown bore my name long before I was born, the stars wrote my name long before I ever picked up a pen. I may not have a kingdom, but I do have a people. I have a community I grew up in, a town, a home, where people looked to me as a leader for a new generation. It was expected of me since I was young. I led the young girls and I shed blood to keep up with the boys my age. I smiled at parties and said all the right things. Even with my mistakes and faults, the crown was relentless, it has embedded itself in my skull, like thorns. You see the flowers grow from my head, but not the blood I have wiped away.

I heard that the poet wants to be the soldier, the soldier wants to be the king, and the king wants to be the poet. Which, although accurate, misses a few details. More than that, I believe that someone else spoke correctly when they said the Poet wants the strength of the Soldier, the Soldier wants the mind of the King, and the King wants the freedom of the Poet. And don't you all know that to be true? I once read that every great writer has a hallmark emotion that they write from. If that's true, mine is the cry for freedom. Deeper than yearning and more raw than longing. I have dreamed of freedom since I was young. I have felt the weight of the crown, but it weighs me down, and I hope to be free one day. For now however, I have accepted something: I am the King. Not a King who sees the world with fresh eyes, but one who has seen one too many wars and injustices, but has never forgotten the dream of peace and freedom.

I finally figured it out in the end, here is the ultimate truth: I have the hands of a soldier, the heart of a poet, and the eyes of a King. I know what the say, heavy is the head that bears the crown- but I have strong shoulders.

I live in a big city. The sounds grow louder with the day and the lights grow brighter with the night. Too often, I feel myself become lost in the rapid pace of this city. I fight feelings of loneliness, emptiness and immense fear, but there comes a time where I forget all of that. There is one hour of my day that sets my soul at ease. For one hour of the day, I am transported to another big city: Boston. There, after walking in the chilly wind, I end my day in a warm place. Every night, at 10 pm, I am greeted by the sounds and warmth of a bar called Cheers.

At 10pm, I turn my TV to Channel 7, and I say hello to the gang at Cheers. Tears well in my eyes but refuse to fall as the theme song plays. It's at that time I really do miss where everybody knows my name. I scream "Norm!" at the TV and I laugh as Carla hurls verbal punches at Diane. The solace I have, is that for an hour, I am no longer here. For 2 episodes, I am in a completely different city, where I am amongst the bar patrons, rolling my eyes when Cliff begins to speak.

You see, it's not about Cheers, but it is what Cheers represents. The familiar atmosphere is something I long to find here in college, but I am still seeking it. I suppose it is peculiar, that a show which is 41 years old puts my 19 year old heart at rest, but nothing makes me feel at ease like those beginning piano bars in the theme song. I think there is quite the truth to be spoken in that song. I am prolific amongst my friends and family for being a runner. Not in the athletic sense, but in the sense that I am constantly running away from the familiar and into the unknown. However, I find that no matter how far I run, I will always look back and cherish my time at the places where everyone knows my name.

I think, in a manner of speaking, it's inherent human nature to seek places where everyone knows us and is glad we came. It's part of what makes Cheers so special. Here, where I have no one, I find great solace in the fact that once the clock turns 10, I can turn to Sam Malone, and tell him about my day while he gives me a smile and pours me a drink. What makes Cheers work as a show, and I mean the inherent nature in the message of the show, is that it provides an empathetic retreat where one can feel at home. Do you know how many times I've turned on Cheers after a bad day, crying during the theme song only to leave the episode laughing as the picture of the bar room lingers on my screen, reminding me to thank Glen Charles, Les Charles, and James Burrows.

Cheers and its theme song feel like Bruce Springsteens longing and cathartic cry in Born to Run. That's how I best know how to describe it. It is a part of my soul that is so calming that sometimes, when I truly feel the depths of this lonely world, I pretend I am at that bar. I pretend everyone shouts my name as I walk through the door and Coach asks "How's life treating ya?" when I sit down. I pretend that for a few moments in my day, I am received with love and fondness. You see, the warmth of the bar in Cheers makes the cold pavements of my big city a little easier to bear. The gang on the show makes me feel like loneliness isn't a burden on my heart. I owe a big thank you to Cheers, it's been with me through the thick and thin. How I feel so connected to something from so long ago. To me, Cheers feels like laughter.

These characters speak to me every night. Carla reminds me to be tough, Diane reminds me to be elegant, Cliff reminds me to be myself, Norm reminds me to be true to my values, Frasier reminds me to allow myself to be hurt, Rebecca reminds me to be kind, Woody reminds me to hold onto childlike innocence, Coach reminds me to laugh, at the world and at myself. Most importantly, Sam reminds me to be brave, passionate, accepting, humble and above all, he reminds me that there will always be a seat for me at the end of the bar. Cheers.

What do you say when someone dies?

When the supermarket flowers aren’t enough.

And the food I bring begins to grow old,

Placed on a table, buried by piles of stuff.

I could buy a million roses,

But in a week, they would have died.

They might crumble in your hand,

and they won’t fill the void inside.

I know that the calendar won’t change months,

And the clock will freeze in time,

And the bells will softly taunt you,

when they begin to chime.

So I stand upon your doorstep,

But my hands refuse to knock.

I usually know exactly what to say,

But now, I’m afraid to talk.

I look to the heavens as if they’ll answer,

Today, the sky is more gray than blue,

And I whisper to whoever is listening,

“He cries every time he thinks of you.”

I wish we could fill your hollow bones,

With food, flowers and some dessert.

But you already seem too heavy,

In your eyes, I see all of your hurt.

I guess this is part of life,

I’ll be honest, we don’t know what to do

So I’ll just silently stand here by your side,

I’ll always be waiting here for you.

I’ve always said life moves fast, but,

Buying these roses today was never planned.

And now I’m standing at your door,

Staring at the supermarket flowers in my hand.