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Historical content as my thoughts breathe.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.
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