#blaqueconsciousness

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decided to spoil myself... #TGARA #TheMuffinz #MLK #HipHop #Soul #BlaqueConsciousness

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Something I saw that I thought was quite interesting #foodforthought #blaqueconsciousness

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The God-less Complex

‘94

Poised by the post-cataclysmic silence... I am guised by the verbosity of the stigma of post-generations. Age is the wall between knowledge and wisdom. A bridge of sorts, transporting the birth of an eternal soul to the ends of supreme: Potential. This detrimental thought, proceeds to sprout verbs of an action unspoken. Concealed emotions through earnest intentions try to break out though; perverted inhibitions twist scriptures. These are the scenes from empty bottles, searching for relations.

To behold a black pearl, with a promise still as fickle as the winds of due change, are the prospects of a vision we have failed to comprehend. Our feet rest in clouds and our minds are enclosed by hands of doubt. These hands of ours, yes, these scales which blind, rob us of our senses. So barren is our sense of identity. Like the synonyms of God-lessness, ringing through the portal, diminished. 

Like the crashes of our coinage on soiled floors, planting seeds unseen, unheard of. In the scheme of things it seems, every beginning needs to cease. But where does one begin?

  As the Revelation’s acumen, clothes itself within Sanity, the wolf’s howls shadow the silent bleeps.

The fibres wring open, as it is placed before the Genesis and the paradox converts this weave into a synthesis of Hippocratic belts, sacrilegious in its tempts, as it beats into a shame, a young wild nation.  We strive to tear down the establishment, the System of Maturity. We think we know.

Treading on the ledges of the bricks we sow, in the concrete jungle, these streets we call home. Confounded by the era of quick fixes, we chip ditches with each step and call it success to accumulate wealth. Though wealth without history is like currency with no forefathers founding its value. Illegitimate. Bastardly. This yellow brick road, clothed with green and black stripes and I, the pedestrian, cannot hear the sounding horns, calling for my soul to rise from the ashes. Through centuries of pain and anguish that has plagued these landscapes so richly defined by the grounds nurturing the treasures we seek to find. In the cages depicting gluttony in its truest sense, our synapses fail like the trees that once fell to make way for the faux towers which conceal their true nature in the cloak of social progression. Constantly online, wired not to conceive the sublime truth that has been passed through generations, around the sparks that ignited the boldness that raised kings and queens.

Now this little flame, kept alive only by a few, finds refuge in the hearts of those who see beyond the era of stolen identities and strive to define themselves by the character of being. To be or not to be, is the one true action that keeps those few from falling off the edges. For, their wall is like a tunnel with a light at the opening. Lights all around, on the sides glistening. This marvellous spectacle, with the aid of morning dew, caresses the fibres of my sense to absorb scents, and breathe this beauty of life, my mouth gasps in awe of the richness of knowing. As the taste of true understanding feeds my soul like the well of a thousand wishes drenched by the purity of fulfilment, I hear the sounds of a call that ring gently against the drum that beats when the vibes are good, when the sound of music is coloured by the tapestry of multi-being. Beings with me, we connect more than a network could ever allow. As each sentence marks a tick through my journey, I find beauty enshrined within my hands: Truth. To quote a fellow being, “The ink of a scholar, is worth a thousand times more than the blood of a martyr”.

Be.