The Whole Truth

By MJR

A great man ain’t always the interpreter of great things
For he is imperfect in the eyes of those selfishly unwilling to make change
Yet life offers up all the free-will and right to pave the way
To those who follow our footsteps ambitiously and humbly at a patient pace
The foundation of my struggles is what made me critically elevate my hustle
To bag up a success plan and distribute it to a positive future that outwits the Devil
Move along Blackman is what the oppressor says
I hate you n****** is the message hidden in what he can’t and will not say
Why?
Because he fears our strength and envies our cultural essence
We are the original people enslaved by manipulation and God’s divine glory of blessings
So first time it’s shame on you and second time it’s shame on me
Why is it that the same crime my oppressor commits always seem to get blamed on me
We living in a world where misconception is held in high regards of truth
I guess that’s why when they say “Freeze, put your hands up”
It motivates them to “Shoot”

Just Past the Horizon

By AC

Just past the horizon, I
will fly past the clouds
in my everlasting guest
to just once touch the sky.

Just past the horizon, I hope
to obtain these long dreamt of goals;
the ones for which I’m still fighting
and the ones for which I have fought.

Just past the horizon, I know
I can build the foundations for better days to come
something peaceful, something calm,
something slow.

Just past the horizon, I see
that the unwritten promise
of a much brighter future
is waiting for me.

Just past the horizon, I see
the possibilities of who and what I can be.

Just past the horizon, I’m waiting for
the correct doors to open
which will grant me passage
to tangible dreams and hopefully more.

Just past the horizon, I will
become a totally different person, yet still
hold on to the essence
of what makes living my life such a thrill.

Just past the horizon, I
will attempt to find the ever-evolving truth about my potential
in an effort to eliminate the fears and the doubts
which feed the self-loathing lies
that eat me inside.

The ones that could up my judgement
and keep holding me back
from getting more out of me,
from getting more out of life.

From getting something so simple
and yet so very profound:
Something like the ability to be walking around
with a soul full of joy
and a heart full of pride.

Untitled

By WS

I was a young man on a confused journey.
Lost inside my own world.
Misled to a path that never existed.
A child in the streets who grew up to be a man with no vision
and no presence.
Outside, my world appeared bright,
but inside my heart was full of pouring rain.
The only love I ever knew was the streets.
Until it divorced me,
leaving me all alone.
I became a victim in my own savage game.
Untamed, until I was forced into locks and chains.
But never will I cry.

Everyday is now a blessing.
By losing, a winner I became.
It took me a long time to see it when all
I had to do was just open my eyes.

Sky

By TH

So many times I wondered why
no matter how hard I tried
I just couldn’t see the sky…. 

Buried deep in a cell
a feeling deeper than hell...
Behind a steel door
same cold concrete
on the ceiling and the floor… 

In my heart I know the seasons
still change from summer to fall
The pain of missing a window pane
leaves me to wonder if there are
any seasons at all…. 

Missing so much of the outside
world often makes me cry
I find myself on my knees
hoping, begging, praying
for just a glimpse of the SKY. 

Untitled

By PJ

As it is opened, each turn is:
an inhalation, while I lift the pages,
laying them, to my left. It exhales.
As it reads, each word, brings:
a heart-beat. Sprouting, pushing,
it’s a life-giving blood: a story;
a tale; an enlightening; secrets, long held.

“Read.” As the reader’s eyes move,

the book:

quiet; still; says, to me,
as its heart beats.
As it breathes, life sprouts, in: the reader,
an intricate, slow, dance, bringing: inspiration. “I
live in these pages,” it exhales, as we inhale:
it’s tale: slowly, to the left. “Read, breathe.”

The book,

in it’s anonymous, anomaly; read, beneath, each
heart-beat, “This weaver’s tale…” and it reached:
drowsy, dormant, regions in my mind, that were
anomalous, sprouting, watering: emotions, inherited
versification, I couldn’t see, but felt, reading

the book.