I live inspired to wryte. It doesn’t matter if I’m mired in plights, filled with ire from fights or flying high when I’m weak and tired of flight. Three and a half decades ago, I was sired one night and now live clearly wired too right: I think right wing and I ink wrytings that wryte wings on grounded words that look and sound like lightning grounded birds. My pen might string soundless phrases that dazes ears for days and years and covers me like Angela Davis’ hair. My wryting cravin’, it steers me through a valley of tears. I use my best pieces like chess pieces when the beat from my chest bored through the words that you hear. Words that I chew, rear their heads on the stage, but on the page, they burn like they’re ash so that they give you my absolute best picture like “Crash”, try to play guitar like I’m Slash, pull my words from my stash and hope they spread like a rash when I thrash the lined pad with my pen as a lash. Daily hash out my issues and try to trash them like tissues, cuz instead of cash, I just wish you could understand how I map my heart right now or when pain laps my heart. Wryte how? Take my pen and tap my arm then wryte down the flowing sap my heart has trapped in its nooks. Tryin’ to look further than rap, cuz while their content writin’ hooks, my contents wryting books. They’re stealin’ art, thoughts and words like a con went through their lines cuz they have none of the above like a convent in the sky. I’m Superman with the lead, Jon Kent in my life. Jon vents when he wrytes, honey. Keep pens spent like money cuz it’s not funny how most wryters dull the senses like Novocain, I try to spit fire like a Nova came and many more could know the same if they’d embrace the sun and know the rain. Refrain from trying not to show your pain, but let go so we’ll know the flow that stains your veins, your heart, your soul, your brain. Poets train pens to talk in rhymes, to walk the line like Johnny Cash, thus in the light they cast us can betray like Brutus and Cassius say, we’re brutes like Cassius Clay or brood like we cast ink clay. With our pads, we wake the past, link days with life’s cast when life casts us in a white cast from broken souls. We wryte fast and try to suture, our fractured past to ensure our future, cuz poets often wryte to cure what bleeds inside or pour their hearts to free your mind. That’s not just a line that’s “neo-soul” or a line from Morpheus to Neo told, but was in vogue before En Vogue and won’t solve war and peace like Leo Tolstoy. My life is free and holds joy not from my graphite shavings, but because a carpenter saved me. He paved me a road with the nails in His hands and gave me His Word as a sail in this land. Cus I fail in this land, am assailed in this land, my life will feel thunder and hail in this land. It’s no wonder the lead really sails in my hand. I spill torrents of words like a gale in my hand. But my words can’t refresh what’s gone stale in this man; my peace comes from God wryting my tale with His Hand.