Old Soul

i write rhymes that fill the lines of my devoted heart
i shed tears that fill the cup of my morning tea
i like hard like a kid's brand new toy he/she sleeps with
and if the paper in my notebook was the shape of a heart, this is what my heart looks like, feels like, and is.
i stand strong like Kunta the slave being beaten
i fake smiles like Harlem in the 20's when the white man did and still does suppress them
i sing blues as if this is ragtime and i can tell you want flew over the cuckoos nest
my walk is a graceful stroll
i stand out even when i stand alone
i used to want to live the American dream, now i wish to dream like Gatsby did
see, my rhymes are me, the words you don't hear like a silent mime
i bleed volumes
and yet i still love and forgive
because that is what i've been taught
and in the end that is what HE died on the cross for