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Faced with the mountain of ideas
Another nighttime ends
Another day begins.
Today will be a different day
It will be counted, marked, and recorded as a blessing,
a gift, like a present
The present is like a gift.
Today will be scented by warm apples
Burnt cinnamon and blue mountain coffee
Both of my sons will shine
The first one sleeps late on Saturdays
The second one comes through my kitchen window
Another naked morning radiates
Another orange daybreak
This present will be different
I will press my palms together and be silent
Open my eyes when they’re closed
Walk in the shadow of the stars
Stay awake when I’m sleeping
Today will be a different day
I’ll hold my self still when they try to move me
Dress in fine silks
And blow kisses to strangers
Some of them are angels
Watching me face the mountain of ideas
If you’re lucky You will hear parts of your life played out On a golden harp The notes outline your shadow Even when you dance without sound Today will be a different day I will cast my soul to ageless Listen to the music I heard as a child I will feel like there’s nothing to lose Nothing to gain And everything to be alive for. If you’re lucky You will have a present like this. Wrapped as a gift. Given to you like the sunrise. Brighter than full moonlight.
I was a stranger
Broken in places
I never knew, speaking in tongues
Filled with spirits of pure grain,
Aged barrels and vineyards.
The light switch,
hidden across dark walls.
Fingers, aimlessly searching for
The center remained still, unavailable,
Unbending to tears.
Arriving alone, lost in a wet silence.
I found you there,
Tossing quarters in wishing wells,
Staring through endless midnights.
I reached for your hand,
Held my heart open to forgiveness,
Asking you to accept my greeting.
Your grip was firm.
Surprised by the new strength,
I stepped back, looked you
Up and down
And confirmed it was nice to
Meet me again.
There were days I would lean over, pull back the curtain, and watch the world.
My street was a dead end. Traffic had purpose, Back to mother, Home to wife, Kids with backpacks, candy fingers and Sky blue, school uniforms.
The best times were the mornings. My son preparing for school, I anticipated the greetings, “See you later” or “Talk soon”, Words loaded with time. That’s what I held onto then, time. Waiting for blood vessels to find a way through Donated bone, waiting for burnt nerves to bring feeling back to my leg, waiting in bed, for months.
The afternoons gave me the most to see, A line of birds, perched across phone lines, street lamps covered in black feathers and wings. I watched, as they flew in, stayed for awhile, Then turned to fly away.
'NUFF SAID' / Sharrif Simmons ft. BRZZVLL - Belgium
Original Poetry Reading - Dear van Gogh
HBO - Def Poetry Jam Performance - Fuck What You Heard
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