The Maker labeled me as a potent creole mix,
bred from the stern and the sturdy. 
Call my demeanor rosewood timber.

And in the tree’s image,
I’m rooted
at the base
but have mastered swaying in gales. 

I bare my father’s thunderous voice
in business,
and mom’s bellow through my own laughter.

My ways are mellow and deep as they are untamed and
basic. 

I’m a word painter, vigorously slinging ink upon a canvas only  I and others like me have the ability to leave permanent marks.

My pride is in being a provoker of minds and of, just as
crucial, hearts. 

I devour the ground with my walk—
intentional and pronounced steps,
for I’ve designed my life to always have somewhere to be needed.
No limp is present or needed. 

My site—
rarely is it in towards land,
towards the height of the hill,
nor looking to see what field I’ve plowed.

I gave at the destination with a vengeance.

I bare the ink of tribal timelines. 
They’re so revered in my heart,
I felt overwhelmingly compelled to wear them physically.

My composure is mongoose, regardless of any amount of
euphoria in my presence.

My charm and wit complement each other
the way thunder compliments lightning. 

I take slow swigs without fear or embarrassment of a loose tongue. 

I’m the life of most parties and know when to let others be that life.

Pop culture gives me a splitting headache—
whom whores are dating,
who’s receiving the most cash,
who should be worshipped,
who should be judged,
or what lifestyle I should imitate. 
My ears are conditioned to be hard of hearing.

Therefore, I miss the vampires of my energy. 
I’m quick and, yet, cautious, not fearful,
to love. 
I despise those afraid to,
for what they see as weakness is indeed strength.
Only return it for it to be never-ending. 

I am not the best at anything, the fastest, nor strongest, nor
richest nor the sexiest. 
But, I am the best at being me.

Arrogance benefits me not. 
I’m just obliged 
of the vessel
to whom I call my own.

I’m self-aware, to be similar to many, but never cloned.

You were made you intentionally.
You never see the fish mad at the bird for not being able to fly. 

From the Soul,

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Published works: https://amzn.to/3gA4Dh3