Sitting here thinking I’m in a nightmare. It rarely feels like I belong here. In the corner of my bed.. traces of pale moonlight reach the floor but I don’t see light.. I see shadows lurking, shivers down my spine..
I don’t think I belong here. Somewhere in my mind I’m reaching for white light but it eludes me leaving rainbow colored shadows that mimic my fingers like I’m playing air guitar.
I often think about the dreams I’ve always wanted.. the one you cant tell an African parent cause.. well.. you need to do something civilized.. go to school, get a job, get money..waste days away in an office somewhere. I had a dream I was on stage,
I could hear the words to the song I wrote being sung with me by the crowd. I could hear them go silent when I began to recite my poetry.. quiet, expectant. Like kids waiting for a bed time story.. I want to be something other than this.. person I’ve been made out to be.
Some people look at me and think “wow, you’re 17 and in your first year of varsity”. I’m standing there thinking I could be anywhere in the world but I’m here.. I have to be grateful or proud or something like that, right? Well.. I just want to be on stage, but some of our dreams are taboo. You don’t whisper them to a friend, they just laugh and wish you luck. You don’t jokingly bring them up over dinner with the family, all you’d hear is school, graduate, job.. and I’m thinking what is the point if I wont love it. More often than sometimes I find myself in class with sheets of paper filled with words. I’m hoping someone will appreciate them as much as I do. I’m hoping they’ll hear me and not just say “oh, that rhymes”
Things… are different here. I don’t have people I can associate with on this matter. Every one is too cool for spoken art. Trying to follow mainstream rappers and losing every sense of originality. Don’t you think we could take it down a notch. Maybe have a bit of truth in what we say. I don’t really know were I’m headed with this.. I guess I’m just frustrated.. I want like really want to do this.
But sometimes I feel like I’m just me and there is the world. And I should stop telling myself these lies. Sometimes it’s like I’m not cut from a certain cloth that the world would stop for a moment to appreciate.. I can see the dead look in their eyes when they read my work.. I expose myself to them and they mock my nakedness. They tell me it was nice.. and smile.
Eh.. I’m ranting now.. I’ll just go back to sleep.. this too shall pass..