Photo taken March 20, 2019 — At The MODA Center in Portland, Oregon. (Maybe I wasn’t precisely courtside but my thoughts were…)
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
A Budd of love wrote this.
Creativity admitted in the wrist.
For that game, I was weak as shit.
Last year I wrote books and failure I must admit.
2020 clear visioned and I write in to a bliss.
Dream number two—it’s not for fame.
But enough to live and see Dame.
Tell me where creativity takes you in the game?
Maybe like writing your soul, it entertains.
Like a boxer fighting, their beast surprises by striking insane.
Reflexes and lessons of shame.
How random like these words and adverbs for lames.
Lucid dreaming, my classmate asked where’s the speaker who came,
…into this year running, dancing up Caesar Chavez funny, & balling with words for dummies…
Where art thou beasts?
Gods and frauds so those you must dodge.
How radical I think?
A joker in mind so maybe in death my meaning is seen…
For I am love and everything between.
Meditation’s the lifestyle as words my blood.
I’ve met many hypocrites they’re everywhere like buds.
If you don’t know you, stay away until you do.
I know me and that’s all my world will do.
A failing dreamer of hoop things.
A writing believer who cares less for your doings.
But trust me, I respect those who can’t figure me.
Each moment I’m creating things.
Here’s how it flows…
Writing’s my sport.
My world’s the court.
My thought’s the ball.
Shooting into a bliss.
The playbooks, I reminisce.
To yours I can’t compare.
Competition’s who I was there.
To end and be fair.
Readers cheer but never dare.
I sat courtside to see what it’s like there.
Anxiety followed as expected it might.
A year later to reflect on fears.
I face it daily overcoming tears.
So Dame, where must creativity go from here?