If you stay lost in the wild long enough, you'll find yourself.
The Harlem Renaissance was a time spanning the 1920s when Black Americans of Harlem, New York City created Jazz, produced some of my favorite paintings, new styles of dance, the most cherished pieces of literature, theatre, and so much more. COVID, although happening in a much different time and state of existence, could possibly inspire the same.
I like to think that opposing thoughts are there to push the boundaries and shapes of the thought puzzles, and that these new pieces create even more structures and works or art.
There we were still existing in a pause between breaths that attempted to move life forward. Our mouths were wide with smiles and our eyes frozen never seeing the day we grew apart.
I am one part of the whole of the entire universe, And I gaze up into myself and watch myself gaze back at me.
My second installment of poems for OctPoWriMo 2019.
I’m participating in the month-long poetry writing challenge. Here’s what I have for the first week. #OctPoWriMo | Oct 1st - Oct 4th
I wrote a poem with the LA River in mind, but I also drew parallels between the river and the highways that weave in and around Los Angeles.
I wanted to write a poem about my love for the sun even though summer calls for a much more intense presence. I still stand transfixed by the view and wanted to write down my unorganized thoughts and share them with you.
I looked up at the dark, dried, and ominous dead trees looming down with their bare bent, and scraggly-looking branches stretched out wide. I continued my stare with my eyes transfixed to gaze upon the contrast of the dark geometric lines against the much lighter gray-bluish-colored sky. The combination of vastly different colors gently whispering that they are, in fact, the embodiment of a beautiful, yet lifeless, winter’s day.
Sometimes I find myself missing literature that I have not and probably will not ever read. I sit in the immaterialized section of reality hidden deep within my conscious to see the book of poems—forever lost—that I will never see.
Jazzed About Stuff 