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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Historical content as my thoughts breathe.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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