I began this journey alone feeling sad, a pencil and a pad. Why did they lock me up, was I that bad?
Did you see the little boy with the tears in his eyes, his back baring the marks of his master’s whip. And that blood soaked pillow from his busted lip?
As the detective explained my good fortune, swimming pool, nice house, and to get a grip. I was a nobody, the incorrigible child, that didn’t seem to fit.
More Lonely tears…
Alone in my room I began to draw, to find release for the pain that nobody saw. I was beauty personified, I remember one teacher saying, but the beatings continued, so I continued disobeying.
Rebelling, rebellious, refusing to be seen and not heard as the elders tell us. The problem child, the street artist, can you see me now? Do you hear me yelling?
Because what becomes a dream deferred?
But worse yet, what becomes a dream and it’s dreamer, treated like a turd, kicked to the curb?
What happens to a child’s lonely voice, if never heard?
If in between each lash of the whip, no “I LOVE YOU”, just “nigga you ain’t shit.”
More Lonely Tears…
These Lonely tears, have left stains on the corridor of my mind that nobody hears. And let’s be honest, until you’re Somebody, most times Nobody cares.
There are more of us dying on the inside, which leads to more of us dying on our streets outside. And It’s a cold, cold world, yet
most of our children are equipped with the wrong type heat, years later abandoned and consumed by the streets.
More Lonely tears trampled beneath uncaring feet.
Did you see the little boy with tears in his eyes, as you hurried by,that was me.
These paintings, these scribblings I’ve left on the walls of your soul (and perhaps some of your buildings),
are conversations with generations yet unborn, these are just my…