I write and I write and I write,
pen barely caressing the boundary layers of paper's skin,
Ink drying slowly as if it were too shy to let me in, so I write.
I write for prostitutes and whores, turned wives and mothers,
I write for activists who can't speak but only st, st, stutter
Somber syllables to their lovers.
For them I scribble notes of truth on paper, to memorialize from crib and hearse from
mortician to nurse I write.
I write for Haiti, Kahmir, Chechnya, and East Timor.
I write to fight back, I write to strike back, to attack and to defend
The innocence of ignorance and the vulnerability of weakness.
I write to build bomb shelters for tribes retreating from genocide,
Wishing that if I could than I would liberate them if just for one second, and write them a
home, construct castles from graphite lead and dead trees, feed unfertile soil
Instead of starve souls whose water has been polluted by free trade and international aide
Like an abandoned child being fed contaminated breast milk by a mother that is not his.
I write for Dafur and conflict diamond, stolen elections, democratic delusions distilled
by cocaine we call cablevision, so I create creatine filled lines to lift minds from tomb to
womb, from sand to stone, from morning till night I write.
I write for African babies stillborn of a mother's barren womb
who have no tongues, no
education and no tomb, so I write.
For Iraqi mother holding child wrapped in a swaddling cloth of blood, drinking water
turned to wine, in a bath of mud.
I write for women stoned to death for walking ahead, lucky if she only catches a face full
of acid, maybe then I can graft her some skin with pencil lead, instead I scribe for her
plight, praying that my words might somehow incite a riot within at least one heart,
One soul, one mind, one time so I write.
I write to traverse the complexities of my complexion, the
inexorable connection I share
with Denzel Washington and O J Simpson.
Because on paper, it's ok for me to love a white girl,
And on paper, it's ok for me to admit that I have no fucking idea what I'm doing in this world.
And on paper, I can write myself an Amber Alert, and know that someone will treat me
like a lost schoolgirl.
But in reality there is no such salvation, for I am eternally lost,
So I write.
I write because it is my futile attempt to confess that I am
no more than man stuck in a capitalist way of being, dollar sign
firmly fixed upon my forehead, I am truly the
consumer of my own woes.
I write so that I may talk with God, sip tea with Satan, walk with Mohammed,
And chant with Buddha hoping, praying that they can explain to me why they had to take
me away from my destiny, so I write.
I write so that I can produce Jason's Lyrics, genuine I-tunes
of the soul,
So that I might be so bld to things like
"Baby, do you have the time for me to orgasm in your mind,
Speak words to you of the infinitely sublime,
Paint Monet murals on your spine while I take you from behind?"
But these moments happen only between the lines,
So I write.
To produce power, to produce peace, to produce love, to produce sleep,
To promote thought, to promote life, to promote death, to promote strife,
I write and I write and I write, till there is nothing left and I am right, I write.
In spite of myself, I write.