the pen

and so…
through the familiar tears
i find my fingers
diving submarine lengths
through those
depth charge drops
to that cruel irony
that has trapped
yet freed me
for so very long:

the pen!

the pen that has
encased my
flesh/ 5 senses/ dreams
mangled in the barbwire
blocked by the plexi-glass
and bouncing off the twisted mouths of
belligerents belittling my humanity

and yet i still reach
for the rope
noose tied to my neck
to turn it into a
lifeline :

the pen!

no bics or pretty inks
only speckled and spotted words
trekking across
paper bags or scraps…
anything within reach
that will retain my thoughts
that have not been scanned
or censored
by the powers that be

fresh and uncut
i weave every damned thought
insignificant or not
into some form of sense
because my image.nation
has already been filled with the
insane horror scenes of
cut throats/ jerking bodies/ wailing families:

an unnatural line of death

and without a doubt
others have gone through as much pain as i :
bones crushed under tanks,
hunger ravished stomachs,
disease ridden bodies
and so i find that my curse
is actually a blessing
and the systematic genocide i face
binds me to
kurds and coup’d kings alike

so, because of my existence
i owe more than i think
and the way i once thought
is now minute
to what i now know

to know that i have a calling is
scary to say the least
as the blood shed of Black martyrs
spill through my mind
and flood ANY thought of
resistance

i DO realize
that a revolutionary’s future is surely
DEATH

and so that cliff that i fought to 
not get pushed over
i do now willingly jump
with a flying rage
pulling me into this pit of vipers
because it’s a job that needs to be done
none did it
but anyone could have
so i,
someone,
chose to do it

i, someone
i
some
one

my god!
so powerful those 3 little words are
that pull me back to the realization that
though i be buried under steel
i still posses the same power as
presidents/ politicians/ political activist
that can change the world-
good or bad-
that choice ultimately mine
and being the most wonderful thing that
makes me so beautifully human

and in the midst of the
pen
i find that
wake up calls.
writ writers.
wrung out souls.
wretched of the earth.
WORTH
ALL surround me.

in the pens!

in the pen
swirling i go
like a tornado
outwardly looking so chaotic
but inside
remaining so peaceful

the tears remind me that
i’m still intune
i need them
like a plant needs water
and that plant being my skin
and my skin being that sign
that shows i love freedom
because you can recognize a lover of freedom
by his scars
and the fact that i just won’t stop
reminds me that
I AM
IN LOVE

in love with the fact
we do have the ability to
transcend all things:
obstacles/ barriers/ atrocities

and so…
in the pen i remain
shadow boxing with these
walls and lines that
try to contain me…
for better or for worse
in this compound of
purposes and paradoxes
and i realize
this will be the one thing i can never
escape from
no matter where i go
because it has defined me
as the sculptor has done to stone
and i stand
in all my falws and glory
as the creation of
this simple yet complex thing

the pen