Journals Don't Judge

Journals don't judge me.

There's no shade, no side-eye, or clap-backs.

I can let my guard down, and open up

like the naked pages that lay in front of me.

I can come as I am, and be who I am.

There's no dress code, or cover charge...

and no make-up or mask required.

There's no need to floss or impress, just a need to compose and express.

Journals are a silent partner,

giving me the space I need to release pent up energy.

It's an even exchange.

I give and it takes.

Like symbiosis, the blank pages rink my emotion-soaked ink,

and absorb my pain.

I am the composer, and the blank sheets allow me to create

arias, melodies, lullabies and symphonies.

Each poem reads like a colorful tapestry.

When darkness blackens my spirit like Pennsylvanian coal,

and my heart feels burnt and charred...I turn to my art.

My pen spews blue hues onto the page

until my blues alchemize into divine light.

Seeing my feelings on the page gives me new insights.

I write down what's wrong with me,

to get what's wrong, right.

When the weight of the country's knee on my neck is too much to bare,

and makes my soul feel like it's gasping for air...

I let my red hot rage burn through page after page,

until my broken emotions are repaired.

I try to paint pictures of other activists in my mind's eye.

Those who gave their voices to the struggle for equality,

and ultimately gave up their lives.

I see Marsha P. Johnson in riotous color,

like a mural on a Stone Wall.

I see Audre Lorde, Pierre Seel, Harvey Milk.

I see them glow.

I see them all!

I see Alvin Ailey dancing across the vast expanses of my mind.

I see Billie Jean King, the Queen of the tennis court.

A winner every time.

Putting pen to paper is my ritual.

Sometimes it's political,

but every time it's personal.

It's where I go for self care.

It's where I go when my feelings need to be freed.

Emancipated from my mind, my words tumble,

burst and fly forth with abandon!

Journals are where I choose to worship.

I'm filled with gratitude to have a gift with purpose.

The purpose is to uplift other souls who may sometimes feel hopeless.

Who might be harboring inner demons that tell them they're worthless.

I use my pen to write eviction notices to make these demons homeless!

Writing is my meditation, my therapy, and my salvation.

But I happen to be in a unique position...

because for me, writing happens to be a tradition.

My father, the late Gil Scott-Heron, was also a wordsmith.

He used his words to protest socio-economic inequality,

the prison industrial complex, and corruption in politics.

His pen was his sword, and blank pages were his platform.

Then he'd go from page to stage, and for 40 years he performed.

I feel connected to the spirits and the ancestors when I write.

It's something my father and I had in common.

Before he, himself became one of the ancestors.

When he transitioned on May 27th, 2011, I felt shattered.

Then my pen glued me back together,

and became the only thing that mattered.

When the memory of his death makes me feel like a broken t.v.

left by a lonely curbside on trash day,

I use my pen to chase the clouds away.

Then I paint and trace the remaining clouds with a silver lining.

It reminds me to stop whining, and keep fighting!

The spirits whisper in my ear from the great beyond.

They tickle my synapses, tap my pen's shoulder,

nudge my neurons and inspire me to speak truth to power.

When I complete a piece, I feel accomplished...

Like my insides were given a makeover.

I feel vibrant, and powerful!

I am reborn and recharged.

I have renewed hope and energy.

I am resolute in my determination to make a difference.

I'm going to make my mark on the fabric of this existence!

After all, like I said...for me it's a tradition.