I don't bleed gold.
I bleed paint,
And ink
And other terribly assorted art things.
Yet, you pull me
By my pen
To the tip of your pyramid,
Where the women are in lines and the plates are of silver.
I am grateful, father,
That you taught me king etiquette,
But my kingdom is elsewhere
Where the women are free and we eat off our hands.
Forgive me
If I don't see clearly,
Your crown simply doesn't fit.
I'd rather have no crown that be a slave to it.
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Dreaming Black Boy; an autobiography
PoetryIn which a millennial black boy discovers the power of his thoughts and the impact of a pen. The consequences thereafter are devastating. A collection of shitty poems and real life experiences narrated from the perspective of a charcoal dreamer.
