Withered Hope.
yea,
.
.
each discouraging obstacle. every fork in the road,
life is never 'just right' - this bowl of porridge is cold.
or warmer than coal, embers blaze until it tortures the soul
but we can freeze frames, beat the heat & force it to snow.
Lily pad fantasies, frog kisses, stranger than fiction
castle gates, princesses, transylvanian diction
dragon-smoke emanates from those caucasian n' christian,
encouraging the village fools to play their position.
if you're living in the world today -- state your addiction.
distracting your phase of this mission. now make the decision -
fall prey to perdition - or fall and pray to religion,
either way it's a ticket to aimless, painful afflictions.
is it safest to listen to that voice in your head?
or play deaf, dumb and dead to bleeding poison instead?
the choices to bend a molecule, neurotransmission direction
are surefire methods to exist in the present.
denial is a firewall that encrypts our depression,
but conversation starts establishing a distant connection.
optimism, positivity's most physical penchant
to follow hope is cashing in on human's richest investment.
My mother told me life's a forest, grow & witness perfection
but once you stop planting seeds, it could wither in seconds.
we limit progression by succumbing to hatred,
in these artificial times, almost nothing is sacred.
a skylight remains shut tight if you're stuck in the basement,
underground, we're urban youths of a struggling nation
sulfur smothering, wasted space, empty as shells
a public service announcement resentment sent me to tell.
sent directly to hell, are those who fill the epicenters of crowds
My mother always said to keep my head in the clouds.
we play hide & seek as children 'til our destiny's found,
then get high til gravity exerts it's pressure to ground.
the spirit's testing me now. this mighty tree's withering length
was supported at the roots by a pillar of strength.
bark brittle, it breaks along the cracks in it's trunk
feels like a playoff debut, but i haven't practiced enough
too busy breaking free of mental chains, these shackles & cuffs
My mother always made the perfect turkey sandwich for lunch..
but now i'm packing it up, a brown bag full of remorse
sealed shut with a vision of her beautiful corpse ..
her name was Hope.
a gift from parents not prepared for the storm,
both great depression victims - unmarried & poor
buried before her teenage years, an orphan who writes
about the pain she experienced in this forest of life.
and passed her son these letters, which supported his fight -
I learned from these papers that i've hoarded at night.
heartsore as I types these words she's written for ages;
her only child, absorbing knowledge from these withering pages.
Hope is more than a prayer, more than Heaven's decree
and Hope was more than her name .. it was her parting message for me.
I will always love you.
- Black
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