Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash

Written in anticipation of my first book’s proof copy being delivered by Amazon’s Self-Pub services.

July 31, 2019

Mr. Postman, where art thou?

My book’s in your hands, and now.

From Amazon’s 1-day shipping,

To me, a letter of the dream; am I tripping?

Still at the facility, huh?

The waiting’s tough, bruh.

The writing’s even more rough, because;

Day by day I wished to give up.

So, you withhold a dream.

Deliver it faster.

The sooner the better.

278 pages; with words of a master.

Am not re-writing a song.

But for a book to better a wrong.

Proof’s in the mail.

Wrote thoughts to unthink and prevail.

Out the gutters or assumed hell.

Here we are; soon in a box of pars.

Fitted truly for who we are.

Writing by night the scars.

Rhyming; but am not a rapper with bars.

Yet a negro writing who I truly are.

Reflecting my flesh.

Running to meet you.

Under stress I deliver best.

Poetic walker, and synced talker.

What’s all this mean?

From Portland I write in between.

Now awaiting a book fixing 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Historical content as my thoughts breathe.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.

-Budd