It’s weird, publishing
every raw thing.
Not looking at it to say,
does this poem sing?

Could it sing better
if I let it freeze
like the police
when I wave peace
and they throw sheets on me,
and say Chaos reigns.
I say no,
Knowledge Reigns Supreme.

I look like I talk, human.
I sit around my four cornered room,
waiting for the movement.
I breathe into life these words,
and they sing sonnets off key.
They say Chaos Reigns, I say no,
Knowledge Reigns Supreme.

I look at me, and I look
just how I look, breathing.
I have a heart beat.
When I run, it beats fast
and when I turn a disease into
something like a soul release,
I let it feed into me.

I let my soul release out of me,
not looking for an exit strategy.
I write because that makes me move.
It soothes me, it comforts me,
and it shows my skeleton, not my skin.
It stains my world with color
when I am muted.
It takes me away from the world,
it makes me feel less disconnected.

Because when I connect with my pen,
it all makes sense.
It makes me feel like me,
and you might be friends.
it takes away the emptiness,
puts something over the lens.

So I can look beautiful,
cover up my scars, the meds,
the places I have been,
The darkness.

I take a look at why I write,
and why I survive each night shift,
each night break, and day lift.
Each sunshine and silence I sit.
I meditate not sitting
with my legs straight, and quiet.

I let out my violence in my writing.
I let out the poet, and here he sits
with a society of words, friends,
on a page. Each word, more friends
join the endless game.

One drops off.
One begins again.
The poet finds friends
in the words he pens.
And that’s why I write.
‘Cause its Friday night,
and I may or may not go on.
Knowledge Reigns Supreme.

But Knowledge will always
Reign Supreme. KRS
knows what he means
when he says the emcee
and the poet
share the same space.

One does it quietly
with his hands on the keys,
listening to the emcee
while the other spits it out
like flames, maintains the crowd
and kills the stage.

I am the latter,
I am not Madvillain,
I am the mad hatter.
I write to the beat of my heart
and the stomping stampede
of medicinal minds
that come in to me
and give me space to speak.

I am free. If only in this poetry
am I free. There is nothing
but reels and reels of endless
blank sheet, and as long as
I have a heartbeat, and a pen,
and two feet, two hands to type the keys,
I will join the word society,
every time I write.

I will challenge my mind
every time I sit and type.
As long as there is blood
coursing through my veins
and electrical impulses in my brains,
I will be one with the society of words,
the society of nouns and verbs.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home is available now.