Green Art, White Science and Red Realities #WarofWords6 by Wayne Samuel

I don’t know what to tell you
Honestly I don’t know what the hell you
Think is going to happen here.
Just because you’re behind that pretencious little desk
And I’m sitting on this chair
You think you know everything that’s going on in here
My heart?
Forget it.
Put your head against my chest if you really want to hear it.
But you know what?
That heart beat that in out, it’s a lie.
That steady drumming isn’t really what’s going on inside.
My genius has no class specie or genus.
I don’t fit in the box
That is not where I reside.
I’m bleeding man and it ain’t all pretty.
You think because you’ve got a stethoscope and a long note that you’re gonna “get me”
Man the inside of my chest is an all red Davinciesque graffiti,
So your needle may pierce my skin but it doesn’t get anywhere near the,
Truth, which unlike these poignant phrases I paint ain’t all cute.

You see my arteries are ironies they’re always taking things back
Promises I make and girls I give my heart.
My arteries drain like batteries become poisonous and dark
They harbor the animals in me, Noahs ark
And cos of them like a perverted pastor fear preys on me like a shark,
That smells blood, my blood.
Fear is my anti-life my very own anti-Christ
its just makes me sick sick sick
Cos it is writ
That the life of a thing is in its blood.
But thank God I have my veins
Pulsing past the plains
of dessert lands and shallow graves
I dug to bury shame,
The shame of being six feet deep.
Cos you and your kind said they couldn’t get it.
The spurts I bled flew over your head,
And try as you might you could not understand
So though a god you die a mere man,
But I am, a god
I bleed into sand and dirt becomes rhinestones and rubies
I am an artist, the artisan and I do not make art for you
You were made for art,
How else would God expect you
To color in the dark,
And yes I respect you
Your science your math,
Your reason for reasoning,
Cos you can save my life, but I can save your living
But no matter the bandages for bondages I’m given
Tryna get my broken skin to fit in
Make no mistake, you behind your desk, no matter the stitching
Will remain audience, to my bleeding.

©Wayne Samuel

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