I give praise to the Ancient of Days That I’m saved and still standing
I’m not enslaved to the ways of mammon
My heart is brave So when I start to stray I know it’s because I’m trapped inside The lack of my understanding My speech can reach beneath the surface To chase away your fear These verses aggravates despair But activates purpose I pray my poem becomes art therapy A deep feeling when you hear it Each lyric is a healing exhibit What I spoke is exquisite Seldom explicit Holy Ghost you are welcome to visit I’m thankful you didn’t allow The enemy to get to me And for the victory over the wicked Your not the author of confusion
I’m grateful for the solution You made vivid For every problem that is produced The youth is more likely to go to college Has more access to information But has less knowledge of the Truth.
Corruption has eroded the system The moral code is corroded Justice has exploded Cash and fame is the devoted religion All we have is pain This is the mode that we live in When will it stop? We watch new victims from cops We’re frightened because we’re fighting competition They messed up Now there’s no new shipment of crops Is Love the mission or not? If life is a story then isn’t wisdom the plot? Can Christ get the glory if our vision is blocked? Listen I’ve been inconsistent a lot Now they deployed missiles at flying objects Are they being slick? And tricking our optics So many new sickening topics Shouldn’t we listen to prophets? Our interest in progress Has us forced into habits Our thoughts become savage Of course it is tragic Through media we let the crook in our home Every time I look at my phone My stomach starts twisting in knots.
Rich and beautiful images capitalizing off the emotional connection our soul makes with the village. Potent and impoverished Polite and punishing Our people pressing back and forward towards a purpose predestined before the seed was materialized that pushes the ghetto rose through the cracks in the concrete. Love can be seen in this picture of us. This is us who came to this new world in chains dreaming of home forced to make peace with pain. This is us playing hop scotch ,jumping rope, and shooting hoop’s. This you praying that hope doesn’t dissipate and your dreams don’t disappear to the disappointments of what life is like growing up on this block. This is you. The village – Eric Haylock