I would 

Love to be

The melody

Within her

Finger tips

Playing on 

A grand 

Piano

K.j.a. (c) 2017

I want to crawl proudly into your skin,

the colors of onyx and burnished wood,

copper, milk chocolate and creamy coffee,

rose touches and hints of sunshine,

beautiful bones and proud shining eyes,

strength and resolve and perseverance,

to bleed my colors and blend with yours.

How else can I know what it is to be black?

Now I can hear your voice, feel abandoned

and alone, forgotten by others, I hear your cries.

I walk through the slung mud of desperation,

intolerant thoughts, setbacks leaving deep wounds.

Wander through desolate deserts - a no man's land,

please don't shoot, I want to live - justice and peace

just out of black man's struggling reach, as he musters

his dreams, casting aside the threatening clouds,

shifting shadows of all he's lost through no fault of his own,

bouncing moonless because of the color of his skin,

innocent scapegoat for the sins of white men is

cast out for no reason in sharp thistles of ignorance.

Just give him a chance to rise like phoenix in sky.

How else could I know how difficult black life is

unless I sense what you feel and slip into your skin.

You were once the skived leather textbook

Telling me tales of the past that was

A war long forgotten and far away

Teaching me how my mind was able to look

And eyes were merely a window to the present

A worn out old cowboy 

Showing me how to survive

On your journey to the distant pasture

Sometimes now I remember your lessons

And count them among my life's blessings

I’d give you my heart if I were certain that you’d hold it

As tenderly as you hold your own.

I’d gift you my blue eyes, if they could only make you see

That I’m tired of being alone.

I’d give the very last breath in my frail, embittered chest

If, in grief, your lips might accept it.

I’d gift you every ounce of the fire in my heat-seared soul

If, all the coldness in you, it’d quit.

I’d lay the world at your feet, if you’d but walk it with me,

Our footprints in the sand, side by side.

I’d fight all the angels of Heaven and demons of Hell,

If, to take you from my arms, they tried.

But, alas, you want so much more than this here I can give.

The whole earth and all it does contain

Are, I doubt, enough to satiate such an appetite.

To hold you in place would cause such pain,

That my heart would shatter should I ever feign to try it;

So I beg you to give back my soul.

If, with my precious tears, it moves you not in the slightest,

Beautiful Thief return what you stole!

Stream of consciousness:

I'm writing here because I can't think straight to save my life. My mind is in a million different places and running wild as though I have nothing to do ... Which is quite the opposite.

I have so much, too much ...

So, I sit to think about what it is I should do first and like I said, my mind runs wild.

I couldn't do the most simple task as to choosing a starting point. I hang my head and give it a swift back and forth motion, as though if I shake it fast and hard enough my brain will automatically fall into place and tell me what to do.

So, me being me, I think well Lilly, sit and just have a quick sip ... and then I realize sitt'n and sip'n is what I enjoy. After a few pulls of the bottle I pull out a pen and paper to make a list, because now I'm feeling like I have air in my body to move and be successful with my day. Anyway, I start my list, twiddling the pen between my fingers and trying to hone in on what's the most important dire thing that needs to be done first ... and it hit me ...

1. Get more sip

Then I chuckle to myself and say, well if I do that, then there's a good chance noth'n is getting done. So me being the responsible person I am, I cross it out and write beer under it, oh as I add a ^light before the beer.

See, I'm trying to loose weight, so damnit be cool Lilly, I say.

I begin to twiddle the pen between my fingers again to think of #2 ... as I sat there long enough I felt if I didn't know by then, let it go and just move on.

Long story short, I went to get light beer and instead came home with more sip ...

and made a pot roast for dinner.

Well, the pot roast burned. So now we're having pulled pork sandwiches.

All I have to say is wow, what a long fuck'n day .... I should have went for my run first.

we march to the rhythm of artillery:

clockwork men don’t tire.

we trample over vain empathy,

and hail death in the line of fire.

we shoot to the rhythm of our last heartbeats,

drop shells to burn and break.

we trample over love and joy

for life is ours to take.

we fall to the rhythm of our marching feet

we, killers of another name,

we trample over pride of returning home,

for greed is a treacherous game.

In memory of all those who have fallen for what they believe in.

Eighteen.

You were eighteen when you finally touched the sun and danced among the stars.

Memory shining brighter than any gaseous sphere,

Eighteen and you became a martyr.

In this town, all war is holy,

Double edged Jihad fought by double edged sword,

Because when you rob a child of a chance to live,

You take away that which is sacred.

Eighteen,

Your American friends were "finding themselves" in European bars and hostels,

Driving fast cars and living faster lives,

Alternate realities coexisting in the same dimension.

Eighteen,

You found yourself in between struggle and structure,

A boy thrust into the metamorphosis of man.

Eighteen and you became a butterfly,

Still dangling from your premature cocoon,

Eighteen.

They say those that shine brightest burn out the fastest.

They say,

They say.

Eighteen and the only women you had time to love were your mama and your Motherland.

You,

You learned about true sacrifice,

A far cry from those that cry over spilled milk and FOMO,

You've looked Death in the eye and given Her the middle finger.

She took you in return.

Forever eighteen.

We are not all destined to grow old.

Sometimes our bodies expire

But when, we aren't told.

Sometimes our hearts are auctioned

Without say to whom it's sold.

Sometimes our minds play tricks

That leave our flesh cold.

It makes no sense to think about,

The flesh & blood,

Or who made this mold.

It's harder to think about,

Now you're gone,

Whose hand I will hold.

But sometimes our souls may flourish

Into a million pedals & colors of gold.

This only happens because

In our souls, we know no old.

----

For my beloved friend who lost a father today and for all the loved ones of my friends whom I have not written for.