inked

I am in this room. It’s warm and slightly dusty but not dusty enough to make you sneeze or your eyes to water, just enough to tell you it is still and old. Light is coming in the windows, bright white sunshine, splashing the book case with light. On the old cherry stained table in front of me are blank sheets of white paper. The old paper, not the kind you find in a printer. It isn’t that clean and perfect white; crème might be more precise. It is rough too, sops up the ink. There is a quill and an ink jar; both fresh. I pick up the quill stroking my hand against the feather. The jar catches my attention again and I dip the quill, deep like, I pull it out and let a drop or to spill on the paper and watch as it begins to dry. I poke it with my finger.

Stained skin.

It seems appropriate, I don’t think anyone is actually white; we are all more like crème. Some of us just a have a little more ink than others. I like ink though; I like that weird smell it has. I like that I can use it to write down the soul of a matter, not just words. The ink in itself is a word, a word that flows through all languages, it takes different colors and mediums but that doesn’t change the fact that it is very distinctly ink.

When I think about heaven I think about God drawing my eyes with ink. Taking fleshy white marbles and dipping a needle in some ink we have never seen, ink that lives and speaks, ink that changes over time and can never be erased or blotted out ink that came from God Himself. Yeah, I think about God picking up that round white thing and plunging that needle deep and inking my eyes, sort of like a tattoo.
I have two tattoos and will be getting more, but I have some that are divine, not in the really good sense, but in that real Divinity kinda sense. They are written on my heart and soul, on my mind. People ask me about them how I got them and where they came from; I tell them this Jewish guy I know wrote them there. They always ask what they mean; I try and tell them but sometimes they don’t understand that God can write and that He writes on souls. They have this thought, maybe God isn’t real. They know they are written on too, but their colors are fading. They think that because mine are bright I did something different, that I am either a lunatic or I have answers. I do have answers…one answer really; His name is Jesus, He is God. And He likes to tattoo.

Song of songs 8:6 “Set me as a seal—mark, brand, (ink)—upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is as strong as death…” Love is deep you know? It is strong too, stronger than people know; strong enough to rip you apart from the inside out, strong enough to kill you. I tell people to be careful with love; no one ever wants to believe that it can be strong enough to fade their colors. These are the same people asking me about mine. It is ok though, because mine were faded once too; faded like an old parchment with ink that is disappearing, beginning to flake off; faded like the glory of a republic that only exists in minds or like a dream that you begin to lose as soon as you are awake.

Are any of us really awake?

I just woke up, and I can’t see that room anymore. That ink I poked my finger in is fading away. But my colors…they still are bright

BREAK

slam poem

I am chained down/With heavy links of social perception/Expectation and regret, inward reflection, fleshly metallic deception/All day trapped in steel frames/Assigned positions and titles from tongues left unbridled/These illegitimate names/Giving praise to the biggest mockeries/Outright hypocrisy/ Filthy stewards, tainting the purity of Liberty/I WILL BREAK OUT/Break from these wayward masters/Ideas and perceptions producing societies beneficial Bastards/Identity in crisis/I WILL BREAK OUT/Break these chains that try and define the ineffable mind/Plastered a rebel because I reject these crooked chronicles/Labeled a prodigal/I have turned from Delilah’s rise who gained power by plucking out Samson’s eyes/Break out of this invisible prison/Mercy, a jest in the democratic court of a perverse King/Filled with at the sight of man caged/trapped in silence by these wicked sirens filled with bloodlust and violence/Implemented through passive aggressive means/GUILTY through secondary indifference/GUILTY for the hunger in my mind/GUILTY of hoarding the bread but freely pouring the wine/Damned phantoms creeping in cooperate alleys with white gloved hands/Hearts caked with rotting infection/The stench of Dreams long since dead/I WILL BREAK OUT/Because they are out to destroy us/And by they I mean we and by we I mean I…I am out to destroy me?/The dichotomy of a fractured sentience born of false existence based on the perception of lies/Media feeding pride/Promoting racial tensions while behind the curtain legislating unethical missions to destroy ethnic cognition…I WILL BREAK OUT/ because he showed me the way/The jaws of Leviathan have been smashed and Babylon will not hold me down and I will rise with wings born of grace/freely given to me and I will freely give them to any pauper who wants to be a prince/I WILL BREAK OUT/Because these chains hold no power and death will not be my end…