Creation, not Production

*This is either going to come across as completely random or somewhat insightful. I’m okay with either one.*

When I write, I only find myself really embracing it if I’m literally writing, not typing.  Most habitual writers are like that, or so I’m told. I also usually write in a lined journal which pretty normal, too. I’ve always been a very structured person, even if I’m a bit messy.  It’s hard for me to operate without some sort of guideline (lined-paper, instructions, rhyming words, prompt, etc.) There’s always something I’m following.  But in my mind, one of the best things about art, in any capacity, is that there are no set rules, just perceived restrictions.

I say all that because last night I did something small and seemingly insignificant, but it had a big effect on my thinking when I’m writing.  I bought a sketch book to keep as my journal… no lines. No margins, just a blank canvas.  Just that little difference in details just excites me (it’s the littlest things, I swear).

Moral of the story: I’m sure not everyone is as stuck as I am in following the imaginary rules, but I’m sure after creating for so long we get comfortable somewhere and while a comfort zone is good, it never breeds anything new.  And isn’t “new” really the point? Creation, not production, right?

Do something different without requiring yourself to be good at it.  Just do it and give your mind a break from your subconscious mental checklist because, trust me, you have one.  Take it off autopilot and do something that changes its normal path of operation.  Feels good. Really good.

Out At Sea

You take the first step of many

Pursued by a deep breath followed by a few more

Not a stranger to dipping a toe or swimming a lap or two

But now, right now calls for immersion; to be engulfed

And as you look out to the skyline, you see no end

As you look within, you only see the beginning

Take it all in and wander a little closer

Because when you’ve reached the point of no return…

The waves will rise, threatening to take you under

But it’s only a disguise to hide their offer to take you further

Their existence will not die, with or without you in tow

And we pray your faith in survival will not either

Sand of the shore is safe but it buries itself in every crevice

But you’d never notice if you didn’t strip down bare

The tide, however, brings movement and animation

Out at sea, there’s a whole world under the surface

That life will go on

Though the hustle and bustle on land may trick you into thinking otherwise

Into believing at all will crumble without you as the glue

But the clock still ticks, the fish still swim, and the waves still roll

Out at sea, where there’s no land to hypnotize you into believing you’re safe

The constant rocking of the ocean, even if it’s steady to the eye, offers no such lie

Perpetual curiousity as to what lies at the bottom but never holding your breath long enough to find out

Tired of civilization but not brave enough to be at home with creation

But out at sea you’re met with the most promising uncertainty

I am a threat

I’ve typed and deleted my words so many times because no matter what I said, the words just didn’t really capture what I’m feeling.  So, instead of trying of assuming it’s my ‘duty’ to write about this because I’m African-American in the USA, I decided just to be honest. That means this will be a mess of words strewn together, no grace or flair necessary.

I’m hurt.

I’m confused.

I’m upset that I’m not shocked.

I’m not angry, there’s no room for that.

I’m impressed by the solidarity that this has created.

I’m saddened that someone (a human being, not just a black man) had to die to usher it in.

I shouldn’t be nervous to address this because I fear that people might think I’m “angry”. I should be bothered that I feel more comfortable keeping my mouth shut in order to keep the peace in my little slice of life.

I should expect more from myself than to be agreeable and non-threatening because it’s obvious that despite my character, I’ll always be a threat.  And I should live as such. Because I will strive to be a threat.  A threat to every single person who believes all Black people are the same, that all women are the same, that all Christians are the same, that all Americans all the same.  

I’m proud to be what I am, because I was created this way on purpose. I wear many hats and although some are hard to weather sometimes, I am proud.

Still here

Another notification from you

I haven’t talked to you in an embarrassingly long time

I think we both know why the communication has been one way

Though my enthusiasm has dwindled, your assertion has not

You still invite me to all the parties, but I’d rather stay home

Wrapped up in my comfortable delusion that everything is ok

Watching the program that depicts what could be

Connecting with the same people who are doing the same thing

Soothing to the point of paralysis, not really seeing the point of analysis

Sometimes I  feel a tug but instead of paying attention, I just pull back

Cryptic Peace

Man, sometimes I get so wrapped up in “what!?” that I miss the “wow!

Plenty perplexing me of the future and past, but I can’t miss the awe of now

The shadows will descend if you’re always so shady

But that glow takes over when you aren’t hung up on “maybe”

I’ve planted many seeds and some grow while others never see the light

But with good perspective I can still see the stars in the darkest night

Call me cheesy, but at least I got some flavor

Just chill out for a second, you’ll be doing yourself a favor

You’ll always drown in obscurity until you let yourself be rescued

Odd enough there’s still room for serenity amidst being confused

Try it; give yourself permission to thrive in the unknown

Then you’ll see just how many opportunities you really haven’t blown

Ancient Angst

Since the beginning there’s been a push and pull

The drive to be free and the itch to be saved

We want to make our own decisions, pave our own way

Yet we want someone to pick us up and carry us home

We want to know that every step we took was out of our own choosing

Yet something inside us wants to believe it was it’s all destiny

The ancient angst, the brazen battle, the constant conflict… perpetual persistence

The Seven

All I hear is “Control this

Control my insatiable greed

Control my urge to call it “need”

Control the overwhelming pull of lust

Control my belief that physical affection is a must

Control the wasteful habit of gluttony

Control the desire to consume everything I see

Control the perceived comfort from sloth

Control my apathy for all the time I’ve lost

Control my craving of the feeling I get from pure wrath

Control the sensation of power I get in seeing its aftermath

Control the frenemy that calls itself envy

Control the idea that the blessings of others hinders me

Alas, control this lie that says I have any room for pride

Control deceptive thinking that anything I need, I provide

All I hear is “Control this