Dear Mr. Poet, 

It has been some time since we last spoke. 

I still remember your words of budding integrity:

"To be free

Is to be most present and vulnerable, with mind, body, and deed. 

A poet is simply someone who successfully dissects their thoughts, flaws, wins, imperfections and places supple sounds secretly

In succession

Successfully. 

VIOLENTLY are they planted 

On their nose."

 

For all to see, 

I present to thee

A Candidate for Consumption

 

Into a Foreign land

He is placed. 

His house is not his home,

rather it's constructed with his fears; the best kind of mortar. 

Backed by the best reference, History. 

 

No, Mr. Poet, you fought to tell your story. 

 

You trudge along paths

Unblazed. 

A pioneer is not his name but more so

His lifestyle.

I've learned so much from you

Since I have submitted to greeting you with a wandering smile upon our interactions. 

I stop to listen. No longer empty waves do I send your way. 

 

I adore you as you get up on stage to pour forth your life and sentimental energies into

Existence. 

Moving with

Rhythm

Tambor

And Spirit

Do you, Mr. Poet. 

 

Inexperienced with joy, you kep faith on speed dial. 

But on the South Side of Chicago, 

There always seems to be poor connection. 

 

As you pray for wifi to raindown from the heavens, the sky rains down

Reminders of failures past. 

 

Yet, Mr. Poet, you still dance. desire. destroys. 

Sings. Sulks. Shines. 

Fails. Forgets. Finds beauty. 

Wins. Worries. Won't. 

 

I can't tell if you breathe love, or a hate disguised, Mr. Poet. 

 

Mr. Poet, a soul lost to Time

and Space. 

You remain a force yet awoken for some, 

But you live in us all. 

You have no past. No future. 

You choose only to reside in the moments of the present. 

We are...your prison.