July, 31 2019
Mr. Postman, where art thou?
My book’s in your hands now.
Amazon 1-day shipping.
A letter of the dream, am I tripping?
Still at the facility huh?
Delivering by 9PM.
The waiting’s tough bruh.
The writing even more rough cuz’;
Day by day I wished to give up.
You withhold a dream.
Deliver it faster.
The sooner the better.
My fears now erased.
278 pages to embrace.
Am not re-writing a song.
But for a book to better a wrong.
Proof’s in the mail.
Wrote thoughts to unthink then prevail.
From the gutter or assumed hell.
Here we are; soon in a box of pars.
Fitted truly unwrapping who you are.
Writing by night the scars.
Rhyming; Am not your rapper with bars.
But a negro writing who I truly are.
You reflecting my flesh.
Running to meet you.
Under stress I deliver best.
Poetic walker, & synced talker.
What does all this mean?
From Portland I write in between.
Now awaiting a book I wrote to fix colors we see.
Reaction to the masses of the unforeseen.
Historical content as my thoughts breathe.
Thank you for reading.
Now off to speak as I once did dreaming.
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd