Illustrious

My mind is a tinted incubator. It hatches different pigments of embryos divinely planted into it over a period of time. These embryos are ideas, topics, and experiences that were fed, nurtured and given life through my brilliant thoughts. These thoughts become words, carefully constructed and crafted with each syllable having a heartbeat of its own. I speak these words, and they grow arms and legs to position themselves in a precise formation on the piece of paper I stare at with each breath I take forming a new word… forming a new life… a new beginning…. The irises of my eyes project these words across horizons too far for the “human eye” to take notice of. Genres and styles flow through my veins and filter through my rogued heart for approval and editing. For these graphic reasons I have to keep an open mind… an open heart…. Moods for these compositions are set and can be changed instantly by a simple word or phrase. So, I must watch what I think, say, and write. These words lives could be someone’s death if I use them the wrong way. This gift… this power…. is not one taken lightly. It must be mastered and re-mastered with every “new beginning”…

I’s” are dotted with my clear saliva. “t’s” are cross my heart and I hope to die with a sense of perfection in mind being perfectly imperfect. With each step I take, as my foot hits the red clay or green grass of the earth on an evening stroll, it syncs with the exhale of my breath for the forming of a new word or phrase. My organs are a factory containing conveyor belts where countless rainbowed messages are formed. I ingest these rainbowed messages through my nostrils, eyes, and ears. They are moved through my digestive tract and are regurgitated onto a white page to paint pictures never before seen.

Every texture my hand touches becomes an easel on which words are pasted, decorating a new deity of a poem I perceive. I have diction at my fingertips, and style on my side. It is as if I am King Midas. The only difference is everything I touch turns to poetry. Furthermore, I have not just touched things physically. I touch lives. I touch spirits. I touch situations. Ways out have been given my hand, endowed with the divine power from above. I am a vessel and my hands are the release valve from the mere stroke of my pen. I can grab hold of anything and open it wide and write what is inside. My hands are analytical; to my eyes there is never a surprise. My insides are where ideas are supplied and my mind are where they reside. My feet are my vehicle for my eyes and ears to look and see around. My God is the one who created me to make this crooked mind of mine divine. I am what I write. I write what I am. I live it daily and sleep on it nightly. This is my life, which is why I can bring life to it. What is internal radiates through my actions, my words, illuminating every aspect of all things optimistic. My voice is the symbol of my darker complexion: bold, calming, vibrant. It commands. It heals. It persuades. My hands are the mixing tools for all shades with their welcoming gestures and firm grip, saturating individuals in the reassurance of security and loyalty. My feet are planted firmly in the soils of a fertile foundation, which I am rooted in to keep me going… to keep me growing. Matters not the tint, hue, nor stain. Matters not the pigment, undertone or cast. Matters not the blush, tone or dye. I am love… all colors.