3 Am… or so…


Careening cars crashing…
Codes crushed… combustion.
That is often why I write.
It is compulsion.
The words come and I must go.
Especially when things are stressful.
This is my healing.
This is my dealing.
That’s why I share with such feeling.
Because it’s the real him.
Hubris speaks in numerous persons.
Egos leak vitriolic versions of truth
at pain’s urging…
You never know fully what they are going through.
So don’t hurt them.
It’s hard sometimes.
Some scars confine…
and with odds combine to convince
the crying to commit ultimate crime
against self…
Giving up.
Or lashing out…
Becoming less than the divine in them dictates…
Circling cycling… stoking fires of hate.
Love is the answer ask Martin or King…
Can’t ask martyrs a thing.
They are paraded as subtle subconscious deterrent… at times.
Salute Assata…
Don’t mind them.
We can win.
We can reign.
We are not here to entertain… failure.
We are not here to become lame… Saviors.
Each one carries capacity…
Each one teach one.
Love lavishly…
Neither tomorrow nor next breath is promised…
Comfort can breed fools.
Yet… A love that does not elude out of fear of being vulnerable proves powerful when not abused by the dour and sour folks who have become jaded… or cheapened by cheating…
Or lustily leaping through rings and taking whippings and administering the same to end up defeating the purpose of first meeting…
Oh my…
Love nuh.
Stop the bullshit.

Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion


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