Meadow's Mark

"Huddle time," a voice shouts. Murmurs begin to whisper about. It's that time again. Same time every day. It comes around so fast I forget it exist. Wasn't it just this time yesterday? Where did 24 hours go? I wonder as i lean against the wall. This very blah room could ruin anyone's day. It simply was nothing but gray. The furniture and walls just meshed into one. Nothing existed in this room except numbers and machines. Everyone falls in line all humdrum and sad, except for me. My position is perfect. This view is means for an escape. I'm outside now. Sitting under a perfect tree. With it's perfect green leaves and perfect brown bark. In the perfect shade. In the perfect grass. In the perfect sun. Putting sunflowers in my hair. Watching ladybugs dance through the air, laughing and taunting the ants below. "Oh silly ants, you don't know how to be free. All you do is labor on, like the worker bees. No fun is had. No dancing and l...

See, I have found my purpose. My whole reason for being. It came at a time when things could not be seen. In the darkest of nights, came the brightest light. One that had no source in sight. No electricity. No candles. No woods to burn in a shadowy flame. It was just me, shining so bright. If the darkness never came, I wouldn't have found my light. I have found my purpose as I said before. I'm here to keep the lights on for just a little more. I'm the Shepard lighting the way for little, lost sheep. They need to see their way home. They need to see their way onto the next part of journey. I light their way in the greatest of plight. My purpose is simple and effortless, it is true. But I think I have the most important duty to do. For one of these could be the next Malcolm X. One little sheep that could have done less had I not been there to light the way. To spark their little heart's flame for them to see the day. The day when they set their mind t...

Interviewer : How did you get started writing? Me : I've been writing. Been writing my whole life. Ever since I learned to write the alphabet. ((Laughter)) Interviewer : Ok, ok but how did you get started writing poetry? ((Silence)) Interviewer: Well.....oh no, you're at a loss for words? ((Silence)) ((Papers shuffle)) Interviewer: What about writing books? Or the scripts you write? Your films are very successful. ((clears throat)) Me: I started....oh, and thank you for mentioning my films by the way... ((clears throat again)). ....well, I started with the hate that I held in my heart. I used to say poetry was like the lowest form of writing to me but I lied. I tried and it didn't work in my favor soo i tossed poetry to the side like a leftover. Like it meant nothing to me when in fact it was jealousy that made me act like a brat. Poetry allowed me to be the freest I could be. Painting pictures but ending it just long enough for it to be more like a cliffhanger...

"Hey, woman. What do you like?" I think for a second. What do i like?! What do i like?! Well, i like to go where my man goes. He likes to watch football and game shows. He likes how i did it all before he came home. He likes the clean house and the food i cook. He likes that i took care of every nook. He doesn't have to lift a finger. He gave me this ring to always remember. The look on your face says it all. I'm sorry, did i say something wrong?! Oh yes, now i remember. You want to know what i like. I like when my son goes to bed. He lays his little head on my chest. After a long day, he goes to sleep right away. I like how he feels safe with me. Or how he wants to read with me. I like how his face curls up when i give him foods he finds yucky. Or how he likes when i can't stand when he's muddy. I like that he's pleasant and happy and nice. Made with everything but sugar and spice. I like that he's my son and this is my family....

She knew her time had come. It'd been a long month but she enjoyed the rest. Enjoyed the break. Enjoyed the darkness. Now she needed more room. Needed to be free. Needed to breakthrough. She tried but to no avail. She tried again, tried hard to sail. She broke through this time. She flew and flew like a beautiful dancer in the sky. She looked up in the sky for him but she could not find him. She looked below and there he was. She wondered why he was the same. Why, as a caterpillar, would he remain? "I have changed," the caterpillar said. "I've transformed too. Just like you." She smiled and flew, for she knew. Lies he told was all he could do. He did not change. He'd never be a butterfly. She flew away, without a goodbye.