I've touched the hands
of a revolutionary.
a man.
and a catalyst
for change.
I've kissed the lips
of a revolutionary.
a force.
a potential name
for legacies.
Not one amongst
the legions of those
bound by the streets
and chained to a mindset
he pumps his fist
yes
but he's holding
a pen.
a mic.
He's the epitome
of Black Pride.
Malcolm's Pride.
Martin's Pride.
Mother's Pride.
Nonviolent Verocity.
Knowledgable Grandeur.
Confusing the masses
Because he manuvers just fine without
The gun on his hip
And the chip on his shoulder.
Never whining.
Pointing no fingers
and expecting no hand-outs.
He moves.
He molds.
He is.
With feet firm.
His convictions are deeply rooted.
Eyes focused.
His sights see beyond the Struggle.
His age inconsistant
of his wisdom.
But oh. How his father
would be so proud. if only
his eyes were just as clear.
He doesn't just know of revolution
or hope for revolution
or front with the cap wearin' and slogan shoutin' revolution.
But
He thinks revolution
Sees revolution
Speaks revolution
and
IS revolution.
I'm loved by the spirit of
a revolutionary.
A heart
too good for this world.
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