residue of the insecure

Some hoped to conveniently write off all the past, of wrongdoings. Forgiving themselves. Writing checks off their taxes. They tried to whiteout the black, with new grinds and new axes. Well, someone would remember, for history’s sake. How they tried and tried, to discourage our creations.  To overshadow our humble beginnings. To damage our reputations. Out of fear for the same. Discouraged, the more they saw us encouraged. Shrinking back, as they watched us rise. Terrified of being left in the dust.

Insecurity is a motherfucker. 

We tried to include them and smile and be friends. But they had lost sight of the journey and got trapped at the end of the line they had drawn for themselves and surpassed. Their demise was a prophesy, self-fulfilled, coming fast.  Their self-perpetuating machinery, would never take flight. Unless picked up by bouncer, and tossed out in the night.

Postmortem

Sanity went on vacation. Everyone could enjoy a fine primal scream. Finally! Windows were jacked open at any hour for the purpose. It was awesome. Really awesome. Like painstaking creations tagged harmlessly on brick walls, by parking lots and railroad tracks. Adding some light where there was none. For passer-bys to enjoy… meanwhile, at 4:20pm, greenwich mean time, all the breast pockets of all the starched shirts in the financial centers of all the cities of all the world, simultaneously blossomed black-and-blue inkstains.

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