...dear diary, in a familiar but oddly unique way, the night has blanketed everything on its path and history has claimed another day of engaging in mundane activities.
...the shell that is my exhausted body is begging for rest as the remnants of my sins demand that I reflect and repent. The stability of my inner man asks such of me and the balance that must be in place if my energy isn't to be drained.
When day breaks, I slip into the masks
That bought the sound of my voice
Long before my mother's tongue
Hit the fountain of my language but in silence
I am freed by the rhythm of words.
In a broken plea, I take my warrior cry
To the crests that hold the strength
Of the women before me
And with just a touch of their shredded robes
I am healed of my mysterious pain.
...every rhyming note dying at the end of each stanza holds the light that drags my being out of the pitch dark. It is how I embrace the beginnings that unfold when certain cycles come to an abrupt end.
...it is through this manner of healing that I get to cleanse my energy and reinvent myself. The power of these customized letters bends reality to feed my poetic spills and every lesson unlocks the possibility of healing any soul that my pain mirrors.
...after enduring the brutality of my own ink, the idea of vulnerability to empower myself or anyone else then turns into the lake that I drown my ego to do so. It is the price every scribe has to pay and the unending funeral service every poet can't miss.
...see you soon.
...wambuku w.
