OUT OF SEASON

Tilling the Earth with hopes of reaping a blessing. That was not a thought in my conception. I intruded a struggling garden out of season. Weeds do not ask for permission they grow until checked. What type of future could I be promised if any? Can bare hands move Earth to plant a crop worthy of harvesting? My beginning was shaped in lost hopes and dreams my foundation was beautiful. So how could I come forth with dreams and hope? Life had to be put on pause for me to come into this world. I did not ask for the pain you had to endure just for me to smile.

Why was blame my middle name and shame my surname? Just the sound of my name brought pain wrapped in shame. I knew for me to smile I would have to cause you pain first. Nineteen seventy-four brought me into this world, shaped by how others viewed my existence. My first cry was me pleading for acceptance. Just being here turned someone else's world upside down. Do King beg for an audience of 'yes' men? This is my story a cotton-picking nigga who became a King in the middle of a cotton field.

Reproach has broken my heart and I am so sick, And I looked for sympathy, but there was none, and for comforters, but I found none Psalm 69:20

Breakthroughs are supposed to bring about clarity. One breakthrough lead to another. Unbearable pain wrapped in anguish. The soil which I was planted within was not given the opportunity to fully mature or embody the will to provide for a budding life. The pressures of life broken and shattered what was to a dream. Only to become a nightmare even in the waking hours of the day. Each cry was a song for help but a scream to produce pain and terror. If the soil cannot support the plant fully why not uproot that which was planted in folly and throw it into the fires of remorse.

Can seeds watered with lies, secrets and pain spout to be something worthy of life. From my infancy I felt the daggers of lies sweeten with the honey of more lies. A product of lies will never fully embrace truth a concept too big to emotional handle. Which is easier to learn to love a lie or to run from the truth? I am so tired of running. I outran love because it was not the lie, I was into birth. Can a mother learn to love a lie which is proven to be so just by my presence?

My life started with questions unanswered with truth every question brought forth pain and shame. How sweet is a lie when one has never tasted the bitter truth? If loneliness were the lack of communication silence was my hiding place where the lies could penetrate. I could not hear a lie if silence was my refuge. If I do not speak, I could not hear any lies. I identified as a lie.

I started telling myself beautiful lies. One day I will grow into something that others would accept and love. Does the growing plant ask the soil for love? Does the growing plant ask the rain to fall? Does the growing plant ask the sun to shine? I became my own rain. I became my own sunlight. I became what I needed just myself, I could not bring anyone into this world. I missed so much as a budding plant, but I liked what I had created with one beautiful lie.

Who was broken with my presence? Was my mother broken more than her parents? Or was I the only one broken. Not having a chance to experience wholeness how could I even know what unbroken resembled? Being broken brought others to look from afar and question. Broken was my normal. If saw anything besides my broken nature it was odd, and I withdrew into my familiar place to find comfort. That place included silence even my own voice sounded awkward. My lies soon became painful no longer having that beautiful image I created. A seed must be buried amid brokenness. I buried myself in lies and was feed by each one. I look for sympathy but there was not none to be found not in my lies. I looked for love there was not none found not even in my lies. Broken!