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Historical content as my thoughts breathe.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.
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