My Radio is my girlfriend

It talks to me when I’m lonely and I listen.

When my psychologist ask me if I ever feel like the radio is talking directly to me, I say, “Yes!”

I’m missing something without it.

My radio is my girlfriend, we don’t argue or fight, and when there is something on that I don’t like, I just turn the knob.

A customer came to do business one day.

He turned off my radio.

I gave him an odd look and said, “Fool, have you lost your mind? Do I go to your establishment and touch things that don’t belong to me? Touching my radio is like smacking my mother, don’t do it or we will be enemies!”

I then got up to turn my radio back on and proceeded with business.

I nearly lost my mind witnessing another man touch my woman without consent.

I had to put up a sign letting the next man in line know that,

“My radio is my girlfriend, she’s all that I have left, and only I can touch her.”

My radio is my girlfriend.

33 degrees of chaos

I sat in the crowd and watched.

Gena told me they wanted to be like him, the man who controlled everything.

All of them jumping off of their mountain of power.

I sat in the crowd and watched.

Horns dripping with black tar while they all danced around their pray drinking blue blood.

Johnny told me they’d been watching our every move.

I sat in the crowd and watched.

In the distance, I noticed a doctor handing out pain pills.

Green and blue haired dolls hanging on walls in rooms filled with weed smoke just to feel a breeze.

Suzan told me that the founders had sex with their slaves.

I sat in the crowd and watched.

Dangling from the ceiling, I noticed a black woman with blond hair with very good dialect reporting about the chaos.

Then I heard a drunk man screaming help me Lord.

Lisa told me to feed the machine because the casino owners don’t like it when you don’t play the games.

I sat in the crowd and watched.

Standing on top of a White House I noticed fireflies blinding pilots, they landed the plane on its side.

Sparks of nuclear fusion in executives drinks for diplomacy.

Nate told me that it’s the overload that trips the breaker.

I sat in the crowd and watched.

Cry Emit, mommy’s gone, pray David, the sky is falling. That rap beef is for you to eat.

Stretching my thoughts I saw 33 levels.

They reached in the crowd and asked us to climb.

Noticing everyone drowning in black tar around me I began to spin at a 360 degree angle noticing rockstars.

Dizzy, I pretended to be drunk and merry while everyone else kept partying in the chaos.

Limping and feeling lightheaded from spinning, my vision was not clear. 

My friend Moses felt obligated to save me.

That’s when I noticed a half naked woman dancing on a golden calf.

Tripping over someone, reaching for a higher level, I saw a white man and a black man with red hats on that read “up to MAGA Mania” and down to “LIBERAL  utopia” while washing the feet of a goat.

Dripping in chaos, I was no longer in the crowd because the action soon came down to my level.

Before I entered the madness, a poor man tried to sell me a food stamp card. Did he know something that I didn’t? Did the golf cart have a flat tire?

Realizing that I spent my last dime to get in the party, I noticed high ranking officials hiding under the White House, in the distance, while a very wealthy man put his stamp on everyone’s money just to figure out a treasury secret, I couldn’t help but notice an elephant hugging a polar bear while eating the flesh of a donkey.

All the while, he fed the electric machine on wheels as the builder’s son continued to entertain the crowd feasting off of their egos. 

Falling to the ground, I realized that I’d hit my head. I could hear pastors in the distance preaching the gospel of sheep’s and shepherds as I stood alone dressed in black.

Realizing that I could not move, I’d become a victim, knocked out, dreaming of rainbows.

After the chaos was over, I woke up in a hospital only to receive a medical bill that I couldn’t afford because I burned the tree of knowledge and was banned from the garden in an attempt to afford the healthcare.

Everyone thought I’d died in a world hanging flags upside down.

At that moment, I learned my lesson, and my dream of a stress free life was actually a chaotic trap that I fell into over and over again. And there I laid with no clothing on dripping in crude oil and it’s many substances. 

I graduated from 33 degrees of chaos and ran in 360 degree circles while my friends drank the punch and ate the food while watching the shows on their handheld devices. In the end they were all diagnosed with fatal diseases and a few of them jumped off of Mt. Rushmore. The rest watched me get crucified for following the rules. None of us escaped because of our birthright contracts so actually we all played our part in the union game created by scholars who also thought they had the answers to the test that were all funded by the same Department of Education. In the end, our lawsuit ended in the same court that created the death penalty and there wasn’t enough money left for us to bailout the president who pardoned us.

33 degrees of chaos.

The King who fell in love with peace

She was calm.

When he looked her in the eyes he immediately fell to one knee for he saw what war did to his children and his people.

“They’re traumatized, drugged, and they have few limbs left. The land that we called home is no more,” these were the words he spoke to his new bride.

With wings the span of ten fields she took his ring. 

“Great King, I want you to travel West for God has a plan. No King has ever surrendered everything he has to me, but you have given it all. Your castles, your palaces, and your life. For that, I will make you the greatest King of all. My sisters and brothers have prepared a room for you to watch your enemies and because you fell in love with peace we want you to watch them choose war to prove who is greater. In the end because you chose peace, God will give you generations of wealth and abundance with the power to build. Great King, everything we touch will be blessed.” At that moment the King kissed his bride and they became one for his enemies blew each other up and fell victim to war’s wrath. None of them survived.

Standing with his bride watching on top of Mt. Olive, the King’s flesh then grew weary, but his spirit and soul grew stronger. God healed everything and as he rose with strength he saw great knowledge and streets of gold. He saw life with no end. He saw heaven on Earth.

All because he was the King that fell in love with Peace. 

Happy Heart ❤️ Day, put down your weapons and fall in love with peace.

Be Mine

Here’s a gift,

As we eat at the table til death do us part,

Here are some flowers straight from my heart.

There will be many assisting us on this life long journey, but in the end we might find ourselves alone.

Even in our ambitions, some friends may become enemies and intimate relationships will fail over and over again…

Sadly, a lot of faces that began with us will not be around in the end.

Our actions we do regret, our life long lessons that we must mend. Our successes that teach us that if we fail at love we can still be friends.

Lessons while we’re out searching for what we feel we need, when honestly it’s right at home, but we’re tested the most when we’re freed.

On our quest for love, while standing in the mirror, walking through this journey called life, we learn that loneliness is a monster that even we too must fight.

We can conquer the world, but deep inside even that is never enough for it teaches us that the road to love is tough.

Be mine, and we can grow together in a world of trouble falling down like rain from the sky. Please take my offer, don’t be shy. We can rekindle the fire, handing out love tokens in our promise to stay together and never be alone.

When I’m down searching for love will you be the one to pick up the phone?

Be Mine

My Rhymes & I

A month of chocolates, presidents, and historical truths, here’s some love stories filled with rhymes and reasons, in hopes of some sunshine to change the season. A lyrical exercise for you and me from a past life filled with girls and grief.

My first girlfriend welcomed me into kindergarten, but technically we never were really together so I guess we were just friends. I ended up getting transferred to another school. Waiving goodbye, I wrote a nice rhyme as a ritual to ease the attraction. I had to move on and learn my divided fractions. 

My second girlfriend didn’t like me because I never truly committed, she got caught doing some nasty things with another guy in the seventh grade. When she took my soul I wrote a rhyme as a ritual to get it back. I still see her around town at times. The more time I spend with my rhymes the more the sun shines. Thumps up.

My third girlfriend was my high school sweetheart, I didn’t want her to waste her life serving a sailor who was pressed between life and death all of the time so I let her off easy, but she put up a fight, slippery and greasy. Seeing our relationship end because we both gave our life to serve and defend the constitution of the United States took me back to the pen and the pad. I wrote a rhyme as a ritual to get me through the war on terror. I also wrote a rhyme to help me let her go. It’s all good, I smiled at my first poetry show.

As for my next few girlfriends, I must say that once I became a citizen again and found myself in deep devotion to God and family, I married one of them which resulted in a divorce that was tragic. It’s very hard to serve God and bond with females that are not on equal paths, but lesson learned. Play with fire and get burned. At the end of the day I got over it, I wrote a rhyme as a ritual to lift me back up. My rhymes are my delight easy not tough. 

Fresh in the mix came presidents whom as a soldier I had to serve. I wrote rhymes to heal the pain of the towers falling. My rhymes are satisfying, food for my soul. Magnificent, like conquering foes.

During black history month, always in search of genuine love, I wrote rhymes that could bring people together. On a bad day, I desire a good rhyme or two. The words are like magic, they give me strength. Like power to the tenth that’s long generational length. Pure thoughts with no hemp.

To a day comes two and to life comes an eternal walk, and yes, I walked on water before testaments were written so in my rebirth I write rhymes to uplift the world. I’ve walked the earth in 360 cycles so I’m reborn to save. I raise human life straight from the grave. Dear friends and family in which I live on by name, I say that death is a con of the force that fears those who speak life. So every time you write a rhyme make sure you check it twice. Reaching into my word bag, I conclude, that my disciples are not drunks and thieves, they are those who rebuild and speak life like planting seeds. My rhymes are rituals not evil cunning spells and just like the God that’s in me I free souls from hell. So in the end as I rebirth I ask who am I? I am that I am so it’s just me my rhymes & I.

The Worker

 The moment Jan clocked back in that’s when she knew she was healthy again.

“Hey Jan, great to see you back,” Tiny said.

“You look good Jan,” Vikki, her boss said.

Jan sat down at her desk, she’d been placed off of sick leave and was now back at work.

While sitting at her computer she just didn’t feel it anymore. She’d literally almost died and saw her entire life flash before her eyes in a car accident. With all the attention on her she got up from her desk and walked out.

“Jan, where are you going? I need you to run some errands,”Vikki said getting no reply from Jan.

And that was it. Jan took everything she owned and just for a thrill she sold it all just to start her own business.

I guess that’s what happens when you have a near death experience. You’re just not afraid anymore. Jan worked for herself, she now steered her own ship.

The Worker

Af·ro·cen·tric

 Cast aside refers to a child almost eaten in the jungle by wild animals because he or she was left alone in the wilderness with no choice but to fight his or her way to safety. He or she must outsmart those in the wild only to realize another challenge lies ahead. Bred in pain, suffocating in filth after witnessing a next of kin hanging lifeless from a tree. A symbol of life reflected in return as a gift in exchange for God’s mercy. Shots fired while screaming, “Kill the medicine man!” The fight bleeds through the skin of the bright albinism white, dark mocha black or brown color of the skin tones. Tormented, burning in the woods while your children and wife watch leaves a scar with a craving to escape a rich land tainted in blood and decaying flesh. Beaten and enslaved, sold out by your own natives while rotting away stacked in a hollow sounding ship. Babies lost in the fabric of time, left with a choice by a scorned mother neglected, sexually afflicted, and left to raise her child on her own. Innocent lives are lost in the jungle and those who make it out alive are forever haunted, some choosing never to return, and some left with no choice but to suffer alone in the scraps of starvation. Men dressed in black jackets preaching abandoned dreams of a promised land while truth seekers kneel at a burning cross executed like sheep with no shepherd. Yes, people drive around these parts because even with intellect, the screams heard in the middle of the night will bring the animal out of anyone. The concealed beast, haunted and drowning in third world sorrows. Planted like a seed on a dirty sidewalk while spraying a tarantula with roach spray. The funk of sweat dripping on dirty clothes, the constant cry for hope in fractured voodoo dolls, and the reality of being left to fight your way out of the pit of hell while running for the light at the end of a very long dark tunnel as those left behind drown sinking to the bottom of the ocean. 

To conclude this piece, the fact that many generations later all forms of God’s most prized creation are now choosing to join hands instead of fight is a miracle. Today’s fist of all colors are in the fight for peace even if it means dying in internal sleep only to be awakened by those lost in a dark past flying like stars in dark space or dancing to music while walking on water spreading their wings like angels in heaven while screaming holy, holy, holy, in the presence of a roaring lion being groomed by black panthers on top of ancient pyramids. This one vision gives future optimistic visionaries a sense of hope.

Af·ro·cen·tric

Schizophrenia

As a child the teachers made us students believe in a dream of U.S. citizens holding hands in unity. As I grew older I learned the hidden truths of a flawed foundation of a nation still deeply divided. In my daily struggles I’ve come to understand why I’ve been so hard on myself. If something were to happen to me, I would like to let the next generation know that as a child I was not taught to hate, although sheltered, I rather enjoyed the company of different types of people. I also learned a lot about myself, so my message is clear. When you fall down, get up, when you fail, try again, and when you don’t fit in, stand tall by yourself. The delusion is simply, never let go of the dream of a United States. The illusion comes from a past filled with twist and turns, but I can still see the teachers and the doctors fighting on the battlefield so one poor soul like you can tell your story one day. I encourage you to dive into the history books this month and study the characters of the past. I conclude by informing you that once a small somewhat old man like me on the time clock is gone, what role will you play in shaping the world, and if called delusional how will you shape the future? I promise you that once you walk a thousand miles in a working person’s shoes, you too will be cured of your schizophrenia because a working person’s reality builds the American dream. In his or her vision, he or she sees clearly because his or her battle is the delusion that he or she will never have to work again. That in itself is a symptom of his or her disorder. If you convince yourself that you will never have to work, you’re cheating yourself out of the idea of a United States; therefore, you will fall for any lie because working is the cure. The workload is real no matter who you are.

Schizophrenia 

Optimistic

In all, I say, think positive.

A positive mindset sees the good in the world.

When it’s hard and things seem overwhelming it’s wise to train your mind to see the good in everything.

Lesson learned,

Be optimistic, friend.

The Black Mountain Top

Foolish, I was to climb alone. Betrayed, tempted and powerless, I saw people jumping off of the ship. There were millions of them. Aborted abandoned children, sick babies, and even scammers with gold crosses hanging from their necks. Afraid, I heard a voice say, “survive,” so I jumped off of the crowded ship into the water not knowing what was beneath me. I heard the screams of savages raping women as I felt myself floating. Treading water, I saw others being chased by men in white hoods. I felt myself drowning, but no one could save me but myself. In the distance, I noticed burning crosses and grown men hanging from trees. Why was I born? Am I cursed, only to tread water like a sinking elephant? Deprived of knowledge, I used my common sense and grabbed a piece of wood to float in the middle of the ocean. Quiet, I couldn’t help but notice the black mountain top on the island of truth where I found myself. Alone, I had to learn how to survive. The only thing on the island that I could see from down below was more land. The others had been traded and sold, but I jumped off of the ship and somehow survived. The only thing that I knew was the mother land, nothing else. Tired, I fell to sleep at the bottom of the black mountain hearing the cries of a future people never to know their true self. I lived the rest of my life on this island watching the merchant ships go by while hiding by the black mountain. Curious, one day a voice told me to climb and while climbing I finally reached the top and saw everything. I saw the trade, I saw the whips, and I saw reality.

 “Why was I spared?” I thought to myself.

Years had passed and I’d grown older, I’d adapted and got used to being alone. I’d climbed the black mountain a thousand times and observed the evolution of the trade. I’d watched a people that I once knew from the top of the mountain evolve into a different kind of being. On my last climb, there it was, a burning bush. Ignorant of its meaning, I sat by it to get warm because the island was cold at night. Cozy, it began to storm so I slept in a cave. I lived on this island and ate the fruits and drank the spring water from a rich black mountain for over seventy years. This mountain was all that I knew until one day a boat landed ashore with people who were evidently escaping the trade. Trying to speak to them, they couldn’t understand me, but I could tell by their clothes and lashes on their backs that they were victims of the trade. All my life I’d lived alone and I knew nothing  but the black mountain. I had to teach these people my language, I had to teach them how to climb, but most of all, I had to teach them how to survive. Eventually, we began to repopulate and would soon grow in numbers. At the age of ninety, standing with them by the black mountain, we too evolved and advanced with our own language and customs. We’d all learned how to survive and climb the black mountain together. They came to find freedom and I did the same. On my death bed, I observed what we had grown to become. I now knew why I survived, I now knew why I had to climb the black mountain over a thousand times. In the end, I did have a purpose. Me and the others would collect the messages in bottles floating on our shores, we’d expanded from one side of the island to the other. We’d grown so much that some of us lived on top of the black mountain. At the hour of my death, I comprehended one thing, and that was that only the strong survived. I survived the rough weather, I climbed the black mountain over a thousand times, I had to learn how to hunt for food, I had to learn how to grow food, I had to learn how to swim, and I had to teach the migrants who escaped to my island the same. As we grew and advanced in numbers, many of us became unsettled and we were so strong that we conquered a world that once traded us as slaves. Our greatest gift was our ability to survive. 

The Black Mountain Top

Chronicles of the lost and unfortunate

This piece was written in memory of poor lost souls, I wrote it so we never forget what it’s like to suffer. If it offends you, then read it again to comprehend a part of life that many of us are not accustomed to. Peace be with those who are not with us here on Earth anymore. I pray that God humbles us, and gives us all the strength to sacrifice our gifts to make the world better.

The truth is that we have no homeland. We roam through the night searching for food in dumpsters. We’ve been beaten up by thugs and we’re on the corner begging for food. 

The truth is that we have no homeland, we don’t know the rules, we’re unhealthy and toxic to those reaching for the finer things in life.

We’re criminally unstable, invidious of haunted jail cells fighting others who wear an orange outfit because we’re haunted by the visions that killed our relatives slowly. All of the customs of our identity have been reused against us for our own good and honestly, we don’t know who we are. The art that we paint on abandoned structures is never priceless until found centuries later.

We fled our native country in search for a dream but found ourselves in chains worse than we were before we fled. We’re a symbol of God’s suffering flesh on a cross by those battling with their own curse and our prayers are conflicted with human ambitions. Where is our place in history? We’re lost in a world because we don’t know. We played the lottery only to find out that our dollars still cannot buy us happiness. Sick, only to find out that we can’t afford the cure.

Yes, we’re the lost and unfortunate, we played the game and lost. We broke the law and got life. We’re dying on a cross dreaming of saving our own creation from their sins. We’re the nobodies building the pyramids, we’re slaves crucified by our own people for trying to get to freedom.

We’re on a plane trying to figure out what the people are saying while our brothers and sisters hold our hand as we prepare for another challenge. Every day we die slowly, suffering from malnutrition and we have no friends. The dirt on our clothes is a symbol that we have tried to crawl out of the filthy pits of hell. The chains that bind us together, the tears that we cry, and the left over food that we eat, are all engrained into the truths that we hold dear. 

The truth is that we have no homeland and we didn’t make the rules. We wander from place to place, enlisting in kingdoms that we don’t belong to and the knowledge that we partake of is not our own. As the world spins on without us, we die a thousand times, conquering barbed wires, using drugs sold by drug dealers to numb the pain, and sold as sex slaves while those fighting for us are hosed and beaten lifeless dreaming of heroism. This is the side of the fence where there is no greener grass, where the savior is a mystery novel that we may not have read but we must try to relate to, and any hope is beaten out of us. We die a thousand times and our stories are set on fire in the libraries conquered by dictators. Our passions are left at altars riddled with memories of nooses and other objects sprinkled in the foundations of a lost history. 

The truth is that we have no homeland and everyday that we awake we find ourselves alone in a psychological struggle, asleep and ignorant of what really drives the world. Inkling thoughts of a sinner drowning in their own guilt because they cannot save us. We’re lost, on the streets wondering why our families  are fading away from the woes of drug infested communities while we drown in rivers trying to flee to the promised land. Even as a soldier fighting for freedom, we’re haunted by memories of a littered past filled with symbols, death camps , and dreams of heaven while escaping bomb littered streets of black soot and polluted air raining acid on our parade. Demented betrayal of lovers trying to come home as children are separated in a brutal divorce. Ailing images of our favorite team losing every game and as we take our last breath, executed in the hot blistering sun, we reach for a piece of the world that we’ve never known, a place to call home.

Chronicles of the lost and unfortunate.

The Wild Elephants

 “Hey, Trisha, let’s go poke some elephants,” Kenny said.

“That would be cool, I let the donkeys run wild for sometime, now let’s go see what response we get out of the elephants,” Trisha replied.

Shortly after leaving the donkeys, Trisha and Kenny went to go poke the Elephants through their zoo fence.

“Spice, do you feel that,” Fred the elephant asked.

“Yeah, it feels like someone is poking us,” Spice replied.

“We elephants have been taking this crap for too long. Let Donald loose,” Fred said.

Trisha and Kenny noticed that the elephants were acting very strangely after being poked. They soon noticed a loud noise as though one of the elephants were blowing a trumpet. Hearing people screaming in the distance, Donald the wildest elephant had gotten loose. Trampling on a crowd as they screamed, all of the other elephants joined in.

Tossing patrons of the zoo around with their trunks Trisha and Kenny ran for cover.

“Oh God, what have we done? We’ve unleashed the wrath of the Wild Elephants,” Trisha said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Spice noticed Trisha and Kenny. 

“There are the humans that were poking us,” Spice said.

Donald went running with fury as more elephants followed.

As the Donkeys took cover, the wild Elephants attacked them also.

Once the smashing and punishment was over a calm wind began to blow.

Donald sat down and went to sleep as the people and the donkeys tended their wounds.

“They won’t be messing with us ever again,” Frank said to Fred.

“Sometimes you just have to give them what they asked for. We were not bothering anyone, they asked for that beat down. I’m going to finish my peanuts,” Fred concluded.

Things got pretty quiet after that and the elephants went on minding their own business never to be poked again.

The End.

The other personality

There I was again, looking in the mirror.

Full of myself, I’d done it again.

I made a promise that I did not keep, I lost another friend and I did not weep.

I lost another opportunity that I probably needed.

Who dare be so selfish and conceited?

So what is this side of people that I do not see?

If walls could talk what would they make of me?

If  they’re in love, is it true? I saw her alone, I guess they’re through. 

A small whisper, a second chance…

One smile and another glance.

Deeply moved, I found myself alone, once again searching for a home.

I had a bunch, that fell out of the safe, now I’m out on the street searching for a space.

A person who I never was, stereotyped with a patch over one eye, called me a name when actually I’m shy.

But, I’m a loving man, that has some other personalities too, I pray for them to scatter, but they shift then poof, I’m a different person around Sue and Bob, but once I see Deshawn I’m flashing the finger.

Singing at karaoke bars warning my friends to stay away from swingers. 

Why do people conceal their true selves? I think it’s so we can learn a lesson or two, a part of us falling and a part of us queued.

I say, be yourself, because in the end, the person you hurt the most may turnout to be your only friend.

We’re wearing a mask to hide what we truly feel, I guess that’s why to a creator we all must kneel.

We’re all human and in the end we must pay, I hope this message teaches you to appreciate the potter molding the clay.

To the no Conscience Mind

This piece is a school of thought; therefore, the person whom I fear the most is myself. I’m afraid of who I can become, and the people whom I’ve looked up to have let me down. I was not born like this, but the people have turned me into a beast. Therefore, I wrote this piece so the innocent victims will be spared. Young child, don’t destroy your future over one bad day, I wrote this piece trying to figure out why you chose to shoot.

Trapped inside of a dream the other night, it was as though someone had literally been guiding my thoughts to write something very important down. In the field of psychology there are symbols, in business there are brands. Moving on, each sign, brand, or symbol plays over and over again inside of the conscience mind. The question now is, what happens when someone snaps? A lot of us may not know what we’re consuming, but to us it’s all good. A lot of us may beg for what we want, but when we get it we have to pay a dear price. Think of this, a soldier has to be mentally and physically prepared for combat. He or she must eliminate the concept of fear and neglect pain and suffering because at times there is literally no where to run and the probability of death increases in a war zone. Racially, current actions have made scholars wonder about how people actually think. Headed into black history month, in America, one might ponder on these truths. There is something taking place in the human mind that has completely wiped away how and what some individuals actually feel. When digging deeper, we all have something cynical going on with our thoughts, these are the voices that we fight with everyday to interact with the world around us. While watching children suffer at the hands of war or watching the wealthy still not be wealthy enough and the poor still not be poor enough, one may sit down to think. What we can learn about this piece is that in the darkness of space what we cannot see in the darkness may have been hiding right in front of us the entire time. To dig deeper into the complex understanding of a mind with no conscience is to lose all fear of consequences. To be developed into a mind that has not been opened to comprehend the many levels of deeper thought at times can be dangerous because the world is filled with opportunists. While observing these levels of understanding there is terminology, feelings, and a comprehension that some people never took the time to learn. In all actuality, a mind with no conscience may see no solution to their outcome, thus, leaving them with no choice but to break the rules.

My friend, this kind of thinking is dangerous because at the top of the ladder those below may be considered pawns and, sadly, they too are on the edge. To conclude this brief evaluation of thought we must comprehend why people choose violence rather than a peaceful solution. To see a man rise for his people while the world kneels is a critical theme that we all must comprehend because in all reality a hero is tested the most when he has everything to lose and a life to save. The reality that we gain is that a mind with no conscience kills the voice telling him or her not to do it. They zone out the better side of the world and their motive is just like that of the artist, to paint a picture of the world through their eyes and they take hold of the ending with no reason or second thoughts. 

The no Conscience Mind makes or changes the rules with their actions. The scariest part of this story happens at the climax when someone turns thoughts into actions. A mind with no conscience may be programmed to break the rules, knowingly and unknowingly, because he or she, just like the artist, must prove a point. To conclude, I devoted my time to write this piece to be anyone’s voice.

Please, don’t ruin your life, there’s a better world, and we’re all a part of it, we all have the power to make the world and the people around us better. Please, put down the gun.

To the no Conscience Mind.

I had a dream called Los Angeles

I was born in the ghettos of America, but that’s not what this piece is about because if you look up Los Angeles it will say it’s a safe diverse place, and where I live, I learned a lot and actually survived so let us join hands and read.

In my younger adult years I had a nightmare that a city was burning and the people were fleeing to safety. I quickly got up to tell my mother.

She looked at me and said, “Brian, maybe God is trying to tell you something. Give it time.”

I’ve never been to L.A., but as a child, I admit that I did play for the little Raiders and me and my street cousins as a family would rock to Tupac, D—th Row, and NWA was pretty big at the time and we were all victims of street violence praying for a dream to rise out of the harsh ghetto, but I say again, that is not what this piece is about. After the dream I saw a man at a popular grocery store, I never met him before, but he looked me in the eyes and said “Never go to L.A.,” young and dumb, his words echoed in my mind. 

“Why would he say that?” I thought. 

I’m assuming that he must have known something that I didn’t. Now an adult, I can’t escape my passion for a part of America where as a child would seem close to home. I can’t escape the reality of a people searching for peace in their lives, peace in their communities, and peace in their homes. Little children with dreams of flying like angels. So I say go, learn and help as much as you can. They say the world is burning, but I say the world is teaching us something about ourselves, I do know that if my dream was showing me Los Angeles, then God must have a plan. I believe his plan is to bring us together. I say this because there are prayers in many parts of the world that need to be answered. Brethren, there is beauty in the hearts of places that we all have never been but dream of, and that beauty is in the people finding away to make something out of nothing. I’ve never been to Los Angeles, but I’ve heard about it and their street warriors, just like the warriors on the East Coast have little humble hearted children searching for a dream to believe in. In the words of the dreamers and lyrical genius that have passed on, “To live and ——-in L.A. it’s the place to be.
And the angels go 

You’ve got to be there to know it where everybody wanna see or be.
To live and—- in L.A.” If I got the words wrong, forgive me, I’m sure you get the picture. In closing, I pray that the city of Angels and the state of California rise from the ashes like a phoenix while the angels of God spread their wings around California and bring hope with a spirit of holy vibes in the city founded by Felipe in 1781. I hope that like every tragedy on earth that it brings us closer to God and most of all brings us all together. I think that’s what the dream meant. A town burning to bring people together while seeking the knowledge to rebuild. Peace. Written by a dreamer spreading hope for a better tomorrow and a better world. Always in memory of those fighting for a better tomorrow, tipped over with a pen and a pad searching for a way to the promised land.

I had a dream called Los Angeles.

Work Harder not Smarter

Climb the mountain til you fall.

Run until you pass out.

Shovel the snow with your bare hands.

Swim until you collapse underwater.

Do everything yourself and bite the hand that tries to feed you.

Toss and turn on the bare floor.

Walk up a 90 degree angle.

Read the encyclopedia from cover to cover.

Pick cotton in the scorching heat.

Keep spiting on a forest fire until it goes out.

Lay shingles with a bare hammer.

Chew raw steak.

Chop down trees with a dull blade.

Grab your mate and pump until you run out of sperm.

Scream in the face of slackers and make them drink your sweat.

Push the body to the max and I promise you that when your soul leaves your flesh and your blood stops flowing that you won’t feel a thing.

Work Harder not Smarter

A Man’s Curse

Ambitious dreams of owning the world only to find no one to help you tend the fields and fight the animals.

Breaking a woman’s heart in search of your deepest desires only to find out that you still love her in the end.

Killing another man over a commodity only to look in the eyes of his tormented children while receiving the death penalty. Some people lack forgiveness and mercy is not their concern.

Spending your entire life working for your children only to be disrespected for leaving their mother.

Paying child support only to find out that the mother has been training the children to hate you.

Conquering the world only to realize that once everything is conquered there’s nothing left.

Writing a million books only to realize that in the end nothing matters, but the precious things you told the children. If you wrote about killing, they will kill.

Taking every moment for granted only to find out that karma is a curse that you put upon yourself.

Saying things that you don’t mean only to find out that what you mean has no value.

Fascinated with prostitutes because you failed so many times at love and deep inside you’re broken and you’re second man cannot be controlled. You fight with him only to realize that even if you had love he’s a beast that torments every man in a world filled with many different kinds of women, he can also get you killed if let loose in another man’s cave with ill intent.

Being the smartest person alive only to find frustration in a problem that you didn’t solve.

Being alone because you’re misunderstood.

There are so many things to mention, but the biggest curse of all is to lose your life without repentance or a second chance in a world that hates you.

Living a lie only to face the truth in the end, a truth that you have to fight on your own.

Fighting, killing, deceiving, and destroying the world’s righteous only to face God when you die. 

No man lives on earth forever, sadly, or gladly, we all have to face the maker.

I wrote 1 million books.

When I first used a tool to write, I scribbled something on a piece of paper. At that moment, I became hooked on the idea of putting my thoughts on display. I literally came out of my mother’s womb with the passion to write. While sticking a fork in a socket, I wrote the instructions warning other kids not to do it. It hurts. Realizing that I had a mind that never stopped thinking, I got bullied in English class for wearing a fancy orchestra shirt. Catching on to my talent the English teacher put me in honors English classes but my somewhat dreams of writing a high school masterpiece got slashed when I got transferred to another school. Heavy into church, I wrote about everything, I even painted pictures of the fancy temples that I spent my entire childhood visiting. In Sunday school, every teacher wanted me in their class because I seemed to have the gift to stir up some great conversations about theology. I found out that I was different when I got in my first relationship because I would always end up tormented by the fact that girls were very hard to understand. In my downtime, I wrote about it. I wrote about everything. When I was happy, I wrote. When I was sad, I wrote. Broken hearted, with nothing to eat, and even in disarray, I, for some odd reason just couldn’t stop writing. I think I scared a girl off that I had a crush on in high school because I was just so creative. I just had a thing for fashion trends, dancing, and using my artistic talents. I literally invented my prom outfit. Sadly, the paint didn’t dry in time on my cain, but I made it work. Her mother was an English teacher; she loved me, but I think her daughter hated me. I was willing to do anything to have her mother teach me good grammar, but in my quest, I’m sure I was made fun of. It was amazing how I always found myself in odd situations as a child growing into an adult. Somehow, I ended up publishing my first manuscript fresh out of high school. I considered myself a writer willing to write about everything, but since I was raised in the church, I wrote about Christianity. I gave up on the idea of being published by a major publisher because they were too busy trying to make money so I spent all of my money shelf-publishing manuscripts. While everyone else spent their money on the things that they so much desired, there I was publishing my thoughts. My grandmother loved my preaching, I had the gift, but I don’t think a lot of people understood how a child prodigy could tell grown men what to do at the time. Sadly, I shied away from that dream once I started reading more. After a terrible injury in the military, sadly, my mind went blank, but I somehow got better by reading the Bible. My advice to anyone gifted as a child is that when you face off against a psychologist, it’s best to not be creative. Just be quiet. I’m smiling at the thought because the moment they pulled out those black and white blot boards that’s the moment the medication came out because I saw everything differently. It was weird because my entire youth life was spent creating things and writing, but when the gift disappeared it was like some angelic force just wanted to see what a strange little human like me would do. Trapped inside of my body for 2-5 years with no creativity was torture. I begged God for my gifts back. I did everything, I prayed, went to classes, and I even would go into hospital chapels and fight with God to give me my gift back. I’m sure whatever force was on the other side got a kick out of me screaming and conjuring up the holy ghost in a small chapel room by himself while sick people were roaming around the hospital in need of a miracle. I think I fought so hard one day that lightning struck outside. They had to call the nuns and priest, people were literally falling to their knees hoping for God’s presence in their life while I screamed inside of a little small chapel room head banging to gospel hits. An entire cloud surrounded the hospital, ironically, I got my gift back, but, sadly, the hospital shutdown soon after. Each night I would fall to sleep on the floor by the computer at home waiting for a thought to write down, then one night, my gift to write just came back. Just like that, I was back at it, writing one million books. I even opened up my own publishing and production business.

I would say, “The End,” but I’m still writing. My message to anyone reading this is that even if you don’t believe in anything, I’m living proof that God keeps his promises. I’m still writing. ✍️ 

I wrote 1 million books. I’m swimming in a digital lake with paper and ink everywhere.