I will write for you.
At times my mind can be rigid and afraid
Silent but focused for days.
Meanwhile my heart
Clamors about desperately
Intent on living life free
From worry or doubt.
Though these dual forces
War in fiery rivalry,
Both surrender themselves to
The mercy of my pen;
Subservient and hospitable.
I will channel my mind’s eye
Along with the fight of my heart;
Enclose it, with all diligence,
To present it upon special request.
…You asked of me,
So I’ll gratefully respond,
“Yes, friend, I will write for you.”
You recognize that others
Stand and applaud at my thoughts’ echo,
While,
The approval and jeers cultivate the wordsmith in me,
From finger snaps (unfortunately) to follow-up gigs
And opportunities for improvised truth.
But know that, for you,
I would contract my gift,
And destine an indefinite amount of my heart’s prose
In your honor.
I would risk the embarrassment of misunderstood theme,
Grammatical errors, and
Impartial rhyme and meter,
So that you could partake of the rawest, freshest scribes of me.
I will write for you.
Carpal tunnel and eye strain will be my companions;
Purging whatever I have in me [for you]
To give to you.
And though I am afraid of what you’ll do to/with my deepest expressions,
So costly and dear,
I fear more the regret of keeping them close.
Hovering over the very gift that I am not meant
To maintain or control.
To cheat my words of the right to an audience
With your heart.
So yes,
YES.
I will write for you.
Beautiful people
Nonchalant in their existence.
Cigarettes properly placed between fingers,
With postures slanted upwards toward dignity;
Floating among themselves,
Gloating.
Basking in privilege,
Yet secretly despising one another
And the wealth that has them all
Entrapped.
Silver spoons gleam brightly from
The mouths of babes;
Blinding the common man,
Straddling the fiscal fence
In the middle,
From seeing the dirty, disgraceful taboo
Of flies in destitute eyes & vacant, desperate appetites.
Search the world and find
1,000 impoverished pair of hands for every rich man.
And the ratio is allowed
So that the odds towards maintaining wealth are more favorable.
Therefore,
The backs of the poor are adequate commodities
For cheap labor,
Who will continue to build up the
Collateral of nations.
Routed slaves and desperate immigrants
Are testaments
that
The contradictions of the world
Are horrid, indeed.
May swoon
At the sight of ripped chests,
Arms,
And a statuesque frame
Molded after a porcelain David.
Others interests are sparked
(Along with that sparkle in the eye)
At the sight of a man
Nice at ball-handling or
Possessing the stamina of a
Tri-athlete of sorts;
A superman donned to
dodge bullets and
Leap tall buildings.
But I.
Stagger and stumble over curbsides
Over He
That can take vowels, nouns, and stanzas
And compose them into pure fire.
Spit a flame into my ear
Instead of a pick-up line.
My eyes will not follow the direction
Of a 5K runner or a tall, unblemished figure…
Nothing turns my head like He who can
Run circles around me with
The prose that He scribes.
My heart palpitates for the master of the 16,
The king of the manuscript,
And the ambassador of words and thoughts.
Not the muscular, wife-beater-wearing novice
Who will sport the shades, grip the mic,
Ransack the words,
But will say absolutely nothing.
No, not him…
But He.
Who wears justice as a belt
And truth as a cloak.
I will stand and applaud for him,
nod along to his beat,
study his verses and
commit them to memory,
apply the Truth I feel
to my every footstep.
