AS THE RACE OF MAN

We lust after big words.

We pine for the diction, calculativeness, creativity,

and endurance that will define the next generation,

that we might wear them as a badge for manhood

The sharpest knife to break the mold

The biggest hands to shake the world

That’s what we yearn to hear

We eagerly s t r e t c h our ears toward the

inspirational words from the elite of the next generation

Those that shake the depths of the earth’s very crust

by the brawn of their chants, boasting the seeming limitlessness of man

that it might resonate in a crevice of our eager souls

The appointed thousand speaking to our disproportionate millions,

that it might sink into the soil of our hearts and bear something beautiful

AS THE RACE OF MAN

 

AS THE RACE OF YOUTH

We hear the call of the Race Of Man

exerting ourselves to be anything but white noise

desperately scrounging for the badge of individuality,

Yet we trudge single file out of the suburbs, out of the inner city

and march into the future, all the while attempting to identify ourselves by our own drum

We wear much more than our hearts upon our sleeves;

we adorn ourselves with our eccentricities, our ethnicities, our misfortunes, our darknesses

as an ocean of permutations

hoping that the density of our individuality creates a bigger wave than the one to our left

We blaze the neon colors of every ounce of ourselves that sets us apart

as if we are the advertisements along Times Square

hoping that our brilliance will outdo the white noise we compete against

AS THE RACE OF YOUTH

 

AS MYSELF

My hands are only as big as the Creator made them to be,

yet can you feel my shake on the world?

My minute quiver joins the throngs of tremors: others anxiously waiting for the future to begin,

for our future to be something

so the Race Of Man must endure the earthquake of the Race Of Youth, of Myself

I don’t know if my words, my diction, or my thoughts are big enough

to enrich the soil of all of the hearts in the world,

yet they are my words

I rarely am able to create large waves as I tread currents of mediocrity,

yet in an ocean of competing waves

perhaps my still water will beg a second look

I still believe that my palette, pale though it may be to competing neon hues,

brings vibrancy to the world, comprised of small, but good things,

good things worked hard for

The vibrancy is muddled through the lens of expectations by the race of man

Is my sweat in vain if the whole world does not see the glint of my perspiration?

If this perspiration is the only glow that makes my hue shine?

A silent drop that attests to my effort may not change the ocean’s current,

nor shake the earth’s core,

yet I am not white noise.

I am beautiful mediocrity

AS MYSELF