Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash
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Historical content as my thoughts breathe.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.
-Budd
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