America’s Sun

I’ve never been too good at writing in my own voice,

In fact, if I had a choice, I don’t even know what I’d sound like.

I spent a long time chasing this identity,

Saving it—sometimes it felt copied and pasted,

Taken from somewhere off the pages—I seem to never be in the same place, really,

As anyone else.

And, later in life,

I became acquainted with a friend who’s remained evasive—my vocal cords.

It became easy to choke, of course,

Until I learned that some things are easier spoken than wrote.

I’m talking in like—5th grade,

“In like 5th grade?!”

It was halfway through 5th grade, exactly, I learned that most things carry a natural cadence, and around

When spring would arrive, just as I did,

On the doorsteps of my third school for the year,

I heard poetry for the first time…

Not just listened to but heard it,

Observed it in a way I hadn’t particularly paid attention to before.

Was language always so beautiful?

I was always so sure that words must mean, well,—what they are meant to?!

But this isn’t an introduction into the reflective nature of my mind,

“But,” hmm… yes,

I do say it’s still very valuable being an

American Sun living in shadows, and today I can appreciate the splendid candor that begets us.

Even an invisible man has a socially responsible role to play.

I suppose you could say I have a tendency to overload my brain—

So as to never really leave an open space to entertain inviting the thoughts of others.

I cope with each day living in a familiar but increasingly deep space,

A moon man orbiting different bodies, trying to find a place where the gravity seems to align.

Mine,

Is so heavy—it’s so heavy.

But like a fly trapped in a fan on the wall, something keeps me

Fighting to make use of a tricky situation.

All I can do is observe—at least that’s what I was told,

One of the things at least.

I was told a lot about who I ought to be—and even

Who I was, though it was never up for debate, came into discussion many times.

A ruggedly handsome face with such ambiguously aligned features,

“He stands out!” But only by standing in, I assure you.

There must be a line!

I noticed most people looked at me and saw enough of what they wished to.

And if they listened, it was only for a chance to hear their words repeated back to them because even a question can be telling enough.

“What are you mixed with?”

“Oh well, I don’t know, and I don’t know how that’s of any importance here.”

“Here it can make all the difference you see?”

“I certainly don’t see—

—but you do, and whatever it is you do see is fine enough, I suppose.

I have grown since that 11-year-old boy who stood,

Short of mastering his voice, it was my 3rd school in 6 months.

Not because I had done anything particularly egregious to earn me a poor reputation at any school.

In fact, no one knew I attended John Rogers in East Baltimore at the start of the year,

And I even slid by (nearly) undetected from that school in Wilmington before settling under the instruction of Mrs. Powell.

And this is how I would come to know—

Somethings are easier wrote, I suppose.

Seeing your mistakes can make you feel exposed, but it goes without saying—

I’ll say it anyway,

All I know, I was told don’t look in people’s windows,

And the soul is messier than the home when exposed to the elements.

Yet, amidst this chaos, I’ve learned to embrace the storm,

For home is not just where the heart is, but where it learns to love itself, unabashedly and uniform.