Feature photo by Jerónimo Bernot on Unsplash

January 21, 2019

I often impersonate a writer because I feel I should. And because of that, I often lose track of time daydreaming throughout the days. It’s simple. Because we’re all fantasizing upon a star for peace and joy. If you aren’t, ask yourself why not.

Back in Dr. King’s day, most people didn’t know how to speak on peace, happiness, and equality. He emerged as the voice for those lacking courage to speak out. We can only imagine what his social media following would look like today. Millions of people heard him speak without any of that shit. I Have A Dream was spoken from a place where millions of Americans witnessed. Whether or not he envisioned it beforehand, it wouldn’t have mattered because that’s how he felt.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s legacy is an example of when a relentless positive attitude resonates with the right people, and at the right time. We can still hear him today, proving that dreams don’t end upon awakening. Neither do dreams end when someone’s shot dead.

In May of 2016, I visited the location where Dr. King was assassinated. History as told, didn’t end a vision there. Because once you share a dream, people ask how it ends. Even you, after waking up out of a dream try finishing it in the morning, if it was good.

And sometimes I think I’m the only person who does that, especially when I wake up before the anticipating best moment of the dream.

Anyways, fuck my dreams for now…

I stood below where a body was once shot dead. In an attempt to end a black man from transpiring his momentum, instead the bullet amplified his dream for negros like me to write them.

What if we all had a dream? We’d be some thinking ass mathafucka’s…

Personally, I wouldn’t tell anyone. The world would shoot it and laugh at me. My point is, I don’t care what the people think of my dreams. I’ve written them down—both in public and privately.

Why speak on it if no one’s asking?

I dream what Dr. King believed. He was my age dreaming of a world in peace, despite many police who couldn’t agree.

And likely for hire, someone showed the world with their piece.

You can shoot me today, and I’ll have died living my dreams. I recon most can’t say that, because so far, failure is their choice to be.

Failure as a choice; because if they haven’t shot you, yet, you still have the chance to dream your dreams without regrets.

And with that, you must progress…

I wrote my dreams down on paper, accomplished them all thus far. Now the people can’t rewrite what I’ve accomplished on par. I write a lot of words to confuse readers from a far.

But if you’ve read all my words so far, you’ll think of me as a phony, playing a persona and driving my fancy car.

The truth is, I’m not a writer. What you read derived from the fighter.

With that said, I’m not a fighter. But ask the amateurs I spar.

I’ll fuck with your expectations, far like Dr. King did. He spoke his dreams not caring if it ended him dead. He knew that in a decade of leaders and politicians often shot dead, it wouldn’t be until he was dead, that his dream would be globally heard and said.

Fearless we call it, a purpose with passion fulfilled and not spendy…

But they shot and killed thee, I’ll explain why in 2020.

Although that’s like playing with fire next to fuel, it’s also like watching social media’s following fools, repost and replay the gunshots into our brothers’ souls—disrespecting our culture’s role.

Dead souls are fire, and by a gunshot putting out their burning desire, we expose those who’re ‘gun happy’ and liars.

I write as if I know how to play with fire, and act as if it’s best in the dark.

Dark like the dead? Yes, because they become light when their names are said. When my generation is announced shot and dead, my node of sorrow ignites our connection, wept.

Daydreaming for the black boys who’re shot instead, blame an ignorance, and remember what Dr. King dreamt and spread.

Most days it doesn’t matter. History’s a collection of fancy words and verbs. Stories told by those who own land and gold. Hear the stories from the poor, and the majority of them is how America’s systems are racist and more.

Like Mr. Jefferson ever envisioned a Dr. King’s story making it to the people. They didn’t write their constitution for a black man’s story to ever make it to white people, but rather be scolded by most people.

Because they’ll record my brother’s being shot and killed by the people; sell it as if we’re artifacts brought over here to be sold by obedient people.

See where wordplay takes you?

What’s a black man making money off his voice? A rapper or a preacher? A radio host or motivational guest speaker?

The one who hates, is the one who creates.

If any of the people hate, weak ones show it with a piece to the face. Whether or not it be theirs, it’s a result of America’s delusion of despair.

Remember, you aren’t fighting a system, and you aren’t fighting laws on paper. But rather a network of people believing what’s on the paper.

Now dream like the man who spoke his much braver. And start by accepting that most will see you as an impersonator.

-Budd