Dear Mr. Poet,
It has been some time since we last spoke.
I still remember your words of budding integrity:
"To be free
Is to be most present and vulnerable, with mind, body, and deed.
A poet is simply someone who successfully dissects their thoughts, flaws, wins, imperfections and places supple sounds secretly
VIOLENTLY are they planted
On their nose."
For all to see,
I present to thee
A Candidate for Consumption
Into a Foreign land
He is placed.
His house is not his home,
rather it's constructed with his fears; the best kind of mortar.
Backed by the best reference, History.
No, Mr. Poet, you fought to tell your story.
You trudge along paths
A pioneer is not his name but more so
I've learned so much from you
Since I have submitted to greeting you with a wandering smile upon our interactions.
I stop to listen. No longer empty waves do I send your way.
I adore you as you get up on stage to pour forth your life and sentimental energies into
Do you, Mr. Poet.
Inexperienced with joy, you kep faith on speed dial.
But on the South Side of Chicago,
There always seems to be poor connection.
As you pray for wifi to raindown from the heavens, the sky rains down
Reminders of failures past.
Yet, Mr. Poet, you still dance. desire. destroys.
Sings. Sulks. Shines.
Fails. Forgets. Finds beauty.
Wins. Worries. Won't.
I can't tell if you breathe love, or a hate disguised, Mr. Poet.
Mr. Poet, a soul lost to Time
You remain a force yet awoken for some,
But you live in us all.
You have no past. No future.
You choose only to reside in the moments of the present.
We are...your prison.