The man I script,
The man I pen,
The pen scribbled a face,
a distant yet visible frame,
He had a form of righteousness,
not too much to make him inhumane,
he was more of a me that I saw.
An element of Africanism and black life heritage...
he was greater than the pen I held,
And my heart skipped a beat...and another one...
He was the man, I saw through my words. His face so real,
Man from a society of men with furnace hearts
with zeal to raise a man of utter warriors.
He had a rare intelligence,
that questioned the status quo,
he had a faith peculiar,
but not in the things I believed in.
Aye, he had me bound to the paper
for penning his image brought me life...
he was a picture of my heart,
The man in my script.
