bold strokes seeming to have no order, they assemble themselves like waves and ocean, zig-zag and circles, Spiral shapes deep but shallow...

it's a beautiful masterpiece, where every color used is black...

Every line, every shape, every stroke.

Not a drop of white because monochrome portraits don't seem to have an equal mixture and the gray is far too uncomfortable so we'd rather stay separate.

You can't sit with us cause you don't know my struggle. 

Fatherless homes, mothers raising their sons to live without respect for a man, don't know how to be a man, trying to be the man that resembles the White drops that we don't let on our pallets. There is no space and I can only be comfortable with my own.

look at this picture.

We never allowed to take any form.

Black lights make everything look brighter when illuminated by other visible lights and the spectrum says that every color can be seen so let's remove the barriers separation and create.

Celebrate creation,

Inspiration,

Making something out of nothing,

Living in another dimension and letting your mind go mad and your thoughts.

This is the age of creation.!

Creation is Art and Art is liberation, so free your mind to change.

Go against the grain. 

Enjoy tension because from it comes enlightenment and growth.

Focus on the us and draw them towards it.!

Invoke compassion,

Passionate conviction,

Gold sparkles of hope,

Be the change!

Write something,

Sing something,

Paint something,

Dance a ballet of acceptance where the pirouettes are declarations of feelings and emotions!

Build something,

An empire, a legacy.

Do something,

Do something,

DO SOMETHING.!!!!

This is the Golden age!

And I'm tired. I'm tired of watching the destruction of our community. I'm tired of everyone complaining about the problems and never searching, never striving, never fighting....for a change.

I... I am in pain..

The black ocean of my pen, used to draw my feelings, a description, has broken into a tributary.

Forced into a river, beaten into a stream that ends in a lake, dried up.

And it won't rain in the summer.

The grass is becoming reeds and rushes, someone please rush and fill my fountain until it reaches its peak and overflows onto this page.

Create something to quench the drought of my writing, I can't write without your creations.

I need your souls, your essence through your art so I can drown in the metaphors, sink deeper into this amazing alliterations, let similes assimilate my mind like a awful array of affection.

Awake me from my abditory.

Let's make an aberration of this accommodation by destroying the destruction to being and doing nothing.