loganstone5 Blackplanet is a JOKE anymore. Now this site aint shyt but a bunch of phony profiles trying to get your email address. WTF? - April 28, 2011 add/view comments (0) |
|
|
To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men-that is genius. Torn And in your silence you tore from me every single piece of what I had come to know of myself, you tore it from me with your silence. That day you closed your mouth I watched passively as the book of life drew shut. And as I looked upon the angels for some semblance of help they lowered their heads and placed a finger 2 their lips as if to say shhh. Let the peace be still. And I was still only externally, trying to make sense of the madness, the confusion and turmoil I felt inside. Let this burden be yours, they said, that you may know your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of lifes heart. And I bled forth red tears. I bled forth the lan vital, that vital life force which animates my frame and separates me from the dead. I bled forth every question I had proposed to ask the most high as I stood before the throne on the 7th heaven. And all was silent. the universal vibration was mute, and I stood there alone. I stood there alone wondering how you could remain silent when my soul, the very atoms responsible for my existence moved, danced and fed from your words. I stood there like Enoch, I stood there like Muhammad, those ancient prophets whod transversed the heavens learning the secrets of all from Allahs own lips. Never mind the mountains and valleys that were cut with his finger, never mind the rain, the clouds and the oceans that were formed from his sweat. Never mind the boundaries of reality that span the length of his arms, and never mind the mysteries of death that he holds the key to. I only want to know how you could remain silent while my soul sings every praise of your existence? How could you remain silent when all Ive ever needed was one word from you?It was in that silence I sat beside Siddhartha under the lotus tree, meditating, struggling with my lower self, hoping to free myself from you. For 49 days we sat purging ourselves. 49 days after he became aware of the universal truth, 49 days after he became the Buddha of light, I still sat there with one question. I had found the silence within, but I couldnt grasp it. What is there to grasp beside the silence? What is there to grasp beyond the blue tapestry of days and nights that blanket my awareness? Days and nights that were once orange and yellow with sound and movement? Those days and nights are gone, and I just cant seem to move from this vacuum, this self-imposed purgatory. It was at that moment, that timeless drop of Holy Breath that the silence broke. It broke wide through like Red Seas crashing on Pharoe, washing over my heart. It bleached my heart of every imperfection I had inherited from this garb of flesh. I was in the zone of Nina Simone. She exists as the celestial House of the Rising Sun where dead minds are resurrected like Lazarus, yet she alone lacked the Lions Grip to pull me from the grave of dejection. She kissed me on the cheek and called me porgy.And I ascended to the Soul Plane where John Coltrane blew Love Supreme Psalms five times a day. And the Angels made prayer, the shaytan was bound, and the Most High blushed 12 stars which were but twinkles in his eye. And as the Trane wailed tenor praises I found myself ensconced by the purity of primal language. So that the hand of god could be a refuge in my chest when you tear pieces from me with your silence. This Love Supreme descended upon me, bringing clarity and striking treble clef bass lines which shook the foundation of my meditation. A gift so worthy of eternal life I was privileged to witness first hand, as if I rested on gods shoulder that day, that first day when the darkness became the light and the grand scheme of things was but a seed. I was there from the Alpha, basking in the certainty of Omega, a spectator of that not readily apparent. I ate from the tree that cursed the first, and found myself universally aware. I danced orange and yellow streaks in the sky with 7 muses. I found myself in the company of the all, and my isolation, my silence dissipated. I touched the hand of god as Coltrane mended the pages of my song. But I didnt feel you, and I didnt hear you, because you silence doesnt matter anymore.
Why do I write? Can u answer that 4 me? Why do I write? Well, I guess I write because the grass grows by itself and the wind blows when it wants 2. I write because the earth turns round the sun, and although it might not shine on me tomorrow, I know its still there shining on some of you today. So I write with the hope that u might catch my rays and overstand that I may spend days and nights or, lifetimes spilling forth my seed into your mental cache, hoping that you might possibly feel me. I want you to feel me because, even if u stroke my hand with yours, or brush your cheek against mine, u will never truly feel my mind or experience my Shine. I write 4 u 2 find me when my world is cold, when my 31 years seem a thousand old, when my troubles lock me in a dark, dingy corner all alone with the tears I bleed forth. I write because I feel this is the only medium to find u through. U see I tried to speak to you with an intelligent tone, but u didnt listen, or, u didnt hear. Cause sometimes we dont speak the same language or thoughts get mistranslated with the usage of my %#&@$! yous and what it dos, o my message gets screwed the %#&@$! up and falls on deaf ears. Or maybe it ricochets off your temple cause u simply see me as someone you should steer clear of. But there we go again with the mistranslations. So I guess I write because this message is black and white and Americans only understand Black and White. Either its black or its White, Either youre Black or youre white. And that would be fine if there were such a country called Black or white, where people were actually black or white, but I dont know of any such place yet, ( do you know of any such place?) and I havent met anyon who totally fits that description, so Im hoping as I write this to leak a little grey into the situation. See, There is no inbetween, unless youre inbetween jobs, inbetween relationships, or inbetween somebodys thighs, and that %#&@$! dont make it through these eyes, because mine penetrate the soul. So I write because my soul is tired of looking inbetween black and white lines, or should I say lies, and Im ready for some mutha %#&@$!in color! My soul is looking for the color green, green grass of freed land, freed money, and freed freedom. My soul is looking for the red blood of fighters freed through their revolutionary love of green land once stolen, but now reclaimed by their sacrificial blood. From Che Guevarra to Steve Biko, my Sandinista soul is looking 2 connect with theirs so that I may overstand the incomprehensibility of what they sacrificed for me. What they sacrificed for we. And that is why I write. I write for those still dwelling in their dismal crypts, hoplessly screaming at the walls, and bleeding ink tears onto pages and volumes of tormented tablets. I write for the voiceless animals trapped in cages throughout amerikkka, holding on 2 humanity by a single solitary ink pen. Its funny how the pen can both liberate and captivate you depending on your relationship 2 it. For those hopeless souls hoping to make commissary, or counting down the minutes till mail call, hoping 2 hear their name called, hoping someone loved them a few days ago so that they could have a few more minutes of hope today. For those hopeless souls whod forgotten the sick and crippled flavor of Freedom, dining instead from the troth of injustice, insult and insecurity, secure in only one thought! THAT GOD IS DEAD, AND WE HAVE ALL MURDERED HIM. Wont somebody please resurrect him? Raise him please to the height of my stature so you can call and him me and me him once again. From Inshallah 2 all hail the rising sun, God is I and I. And that is why I write. I write because I know Im not the best Man Im capable of being, but Im strivin for the Mountain top, chippin away and building the temple of perfection. My only erection isnt between your thighs, (well I guess it shouldnt be, but damn it feels so good that sometimes I just get wrong). So please dont let that fog your perception of me. I dont want anymore mistranslations. Any more misrepresentations or mischaracrerizations. I am the Truth, but sometimes man is truth and falsehood strangely mixed. And alchemically God and I are one genetically. I am the A D A M, the A T O M, and the A T U M. Adam I am in the process of turning from this base metal a divinely inspired golden marriage. Hermetically sealed with the kiss of tenderness. I see the light of angels dancing in your smile. And that is why I write. I write because I love you woman, Cant you see that?
|
">
