Poets are smart enough to locate the seeds of inspiration/

Wise enough to prepare those seeds for cultivation/

Clever enough to harvest the words/

Seasoned enough to roll up the herbs/

and blow smoke into pronouns/ metaphors and verbs/

Haikus and Testimonies/ Shadowboxing with soliloquies/

Stanzas/ novels and sweet melodies/

The Earth is the poet’s mother/ and we indeed are those special children that take root in her richness/ as we bask in the light of the sky/

Leaves personify verses as they fall in fall/

The many colors of crimson blanket the Earth the way open -mics blanket eager ears/

The nature of balance and a balance of nature/

But talk about balance and some act like they hate ya/

Especially when balance is about that green paper/

Or at least they hate the fact that you ask/

Sort of like I would imagine how a pimp would look when his bottom bitch when she says: “Daddy I’m tired of living fast”

Why is that? or better yet, how in the hell did we get here?

That awkward place without balance where resources aren’t reinvested in sources/

Poets are smart enough to harvest fruit in dry seasons/

Bold enough to lead legions/

Crazy enough to stick their minds into chaos and pull out reasons/

Clever enough to write down a million lines and a thousand topics/

But not clever enough to turn a profit?

Stop it ~