Editing...

Emotions that toil without choreography

On the soil of ink

Ploughing the surface of hesitation

Penetrating the subsoil with the shovel of my tears until I hit the gems of scared honesty
That runs from editing

I hit these stones determined not flake them

So I place the shovel like tears from within on to welcoming satin cheeks

And I dig this soil with feeble child like hands

That are bold and scared

Longing to find the truth within in order to
Salvage the truth of why my poetry
Flees at the thought of my giving into editing

So I dig

Removing the top soil that soils my nails with further doubt

Removing the topsoil of fear that injects air bubbles into my gullet that are filled with the thought process of fearing what I'd find hidden

And here these gems of honesty are before me

And I hold you

Crystals , pearls , sapphires , Diamonds and rubies

All with their individual spec of history

And I began to speak to my honesty

And my honesty instead - spoke to me

She said
I know that it's your wish to
Polish me
Remove my dirt - my history
But realise that once you do this
You've already lied

Being forced to employ construction shift
There by shifting my very essence into an acceptable form of camouflage
I become this collage of part of my being and what can be digested - mullato

I become this piece of beauty cased and displayed in the museum for judgemental eyes
You've fashioned me for acceptance
Fashioned me to appeal to their " eutopia"
I am now that " white man's version " of the middle passage

 Extracting the spirit of my truth and paying her passage to return to the subsoil from whence she came
Cuz my truth is simply too black &
Speaks with a thick honest accent
Beware of how you shape me poet
Beware of how you tame me
and on that day I'll be tired
Sick and tired of the slave that still lives in the caves of your insecurities
Sick and tired of the slave in you that always gets away from the plantation of controlled thought just to sing those freedom songs hoping to find the road to perfection and eventually you're caught by editing
Sick and tired of the slave in you that can't see how perfect I am by simply being me ...
Oh but one day my slave poet
Do note that all this editing
Will all too soon lead you to search for me with edited eyes
Cuz at that stage the editing chip will be encrypted in your mind
And to my fleeing honesty you'll thinketh lies
And to my heart - the inspiration upon which thrive
Will throb a hollow silence