Life. . .

I owe each deceased soul a piece of my life.

Heart wrenching creases slice my dry heart as blood pumps to live another day. My father, a father, a king passes in the day leaving knights and bishops left to roam this chessboard we call the moment before home – or life before death; a resting place for those who've completed their torment. Emotional limits breached by our own in-securities, favored deeply by insanity and oft-leveled in-stability.

I know not the knot wrenching in my chest speaking volumes to my vocal cords that’ve since lost the ability to express what's inside. I am overcome with silent motives to bellow out my intentions; my heart's dire straits. Cold, calculated, numb feelings in a heated room, scoping out initiative and intent as if those two things are the same. I’m intent on my initiative to initiate my intentions.

Sleep. An impostor hiding behind hope and despair as I reason the meaning behind those who live and those who do not. I try to put it in a rhyme, but come up a bar short of a full stanza. So I'm writing instead. But I can't help but feel like, the running chicken with no head. In a state of panic, beyond understanding the reality of the situation. But firing off synapses to my nervous system telling my body to react to the situation a tad bit late. I figure out my clean slate, is a headless victim of circumstance and nourishment. I lament. For the day has come when we understand what we should have done years ago. So now we stand under TARP umbrellas and stagnating riches waiting for the world to change. And not just a black United States President either. But a deeper change that stops the hungry homeless from begging for change outside of million dollar condos at dinner time.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I wanted capitalist riches. But I'd settle for an equal place at the start line. Embellished egos stand guard at the timer making late my beginning. So I'm left trying to answer questions to the full story before I've had a chance to read it all. That is, if I can read at all. I've been told I'm better at dribbling a basketball. Or running a football. Or catching a baseball. Apparently better at understanding the dynamics of circles, split second timing and trajectories, ergo physics, rather than the straight edge of a book. But you mistook my physical for athletic instead of having the mental capacity to control my gluttony and extend my body beyond natural limits or limitations. My lamentations are due to the death of a foregone conclusion devised to systematically debilitate my ability to understand who I are.

I'm a star amongst the comets. Just ask Hailey. Better yet, ask Haley. He's chronicled my meteoric rise to human-dom. I’ve been prophesied in Banneker's Almanac. Quipped about in Aesop's fables. Foreseen in King's dream. Unveiled by Du Bois' black soul. Scripted through X’s rhetoric. Emblemized in Mandela’s imprisonment. Stood up for in Park’s sit down. Ushered forward through Tubman’s freedom train. Engendered “stoke” by Carmichael’s black power. Introduced to thyself by Garvey. Birthed in 1906 by Alpha.

I stand among the accused. Guilty of succeeding; striving to succeed all those who came before me.

This is my life.