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[onelovehustle]

Title: Now & Then Collection: Crucible #poetry #love #poetrycommunity #writersofinstagram #poem #poet #poems #quotes #poetsofinstagram #writer #art #writing #lovequotes #wordporn #quote #thoughts #shayari #quoteoftheday #writersofig #life #words #urdupoetry #instagram #writerscommunity #poetryofinstagram #follow #inspirationalquotes #wordsofwisdom #poetrylovers https://www.instagram.com/p/B7oQEGHhq_A/?igshid=1d6g6306f2dec

[onelovehustle]

Title: Now & Then Collection: Crucible #poetry #love #poetrycommunity #writersofinstagram #poem #poet #poems #quotes #poetsofinstagram #writer #art #writing #lovequotes #wordporn #quote #thoughts #shayari #quoteoftheday #writersofig #life #words #urdupoetry #instagram #writerscommunity #poetryofinstagram #follow #inspirationalquotes #wordsofwisdom #poetrylovers https://www.instagram.com/p/B7oO_uSBqoo/?igshid=fuy5igcwyzvi

[onelovehustle]

“Well, at some point you gotta expand on a story,” a character observes late in Marlon James’s new novel, “A Brief History of Seven Killings.” “You can’t just give it focus, you gotta give it scope.” An American journalist named Alex Pierce is explaining himself to a group of Jamaican drug lords, members of the Storm Posse, who have tracked him down in Brooklyn and are threatening to kill him if he doesn’t rewrite his next article according to their specifications. - History of Seven Killings ~ Zachary Lazard https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/31/books/review/black-leopard-red-wolf-marlon-james.html https://www.instagram.com/p/B7oOsNMhzeF/?igshid=16vog4qix5wl8

[onelovehustle]

Title: The Flood Collection: Discovery of Self Love #poetry #love #poetrycommunity #writersofinstagram #poem #poet #quotes #poetsofinstagram #art #writing #lovequotes #wordporn #thoughts #quoteoftheday#writerscommunity #wordsofwisdom #poetrylovers #writers #writingcommunity #poesia #poetryporn #poetryisnotdead #instapoetry #igwriters #spokenword #quotestagram #yourquote #writeaway #igwritersclub https://www.instagram.com/p/B7oOiewB_Is/?igshid=1kjkwhqpj2q05

[onelovehustle]

This Poem is from a collection called crucible... “Run” #poetry #crucible #onelovehustle https://www.instagram.com/p/B7WpSUKBsQ6/?igshid=1p4ebaz69bzbr

#Crucible

[onelovehustle]

I have been lingering on his work and his words after his visit to Geneseo... “sometimes, you just listen, sometimes it’s not even the answer, sometimes all you want is to be embraced, sometimes all you need is a hug.” ~Steve Price @onefishstudio #heal #onelovehustle https://www.instagram.com/p/B7Wo3mohjOj/?igshid=jrbhgfmzib0f

[onelovehustle]

This is just simply my reflection after attending his gallery!! #onelovehustle https://www.instagram.com/p/B7WonSGBPmY/?igshid=14ol4utmt9itv

[onelovehustle]

Steve Price - Is a distinguished artist with the ancestors living in this finger tips.... AOG “Close up of the lower left corner of “Rosa Sparks” depicting the Madonna, Treyon Martin, and the shadows of slavery, MLK, and Malcolm X. Below: Close of up Rosa Parks depicted as what Prince calls an “AOG” or “Agent of God”   ~Natalie Treadwell @onefishstudio #salfoftheearth Eyekons.com/steve_prince/steve_prince_home https://www.instagram.com/p/B7WoYNlhDH8/?igshid=lg7wvtddben5

[onelovehustle]

#onelovehustle #poetry #rain #change https://onelovehustle.tumblr.com https://www.instagram.com/p/B7EaVxwBcoy2otdRxOAEbY5ALSdfxP8OxL83dg0/?igshid=1ar9qv1tnbgw2

[onelovehustle]

Just a ripple can change a landscape... thank you @margot.terc for the ripple. https://www.instagram.com/p/B7EZoY0Bi-Pwcv-BNYAXolCEyL3HpnmVPWOgXk0/?igshid=9ks555jdt11

[onelovehustle]

#Poet #Onelovehustle #Onelove #Crucible https://onelovehustle.tumblr.com https://www.instagram.com/p/B7EW6PLhLgV2AiKykDn2aKvX2IKnP0VJ-8j4PY0/?igshid=czfw9hep17s9

[onelovehustle]

I recently had a conversation with another individual about silence - the effects it has on all of us and more so, who we become in relation to it. How it drapes itself thick like silk around every exhale, as if to measure everything in between the silence. Yet, when we reach, it lingers in our hands like a flat-line.

We spoke about how at times it drowns us with an abundance that makes something scarce of all. Our conversation helped me realize that silence is a paradox. It is everything and nothing at all at the same time. And I had been struggling with the idea of shifting intangibles like fear, anger, shame and guilt, within myself in order to make room for more.

In doing so I question whether silence is a constant like any law of nature rather than a normality? Something so godly it gives shape to everything and anything we find holy. If so, would it be inconceivable to think that the scarcity we feel lacks the depth of what we actually see? What if when silence grips us the way we grip sand, we allow that silence, that grip, to hold us. We allow ourselves to fall into it with grace, and like sand, we allow ourselves to take the shape of everything around us. 

Maybe what we fear is that silence gives us no shape at all, and therefore we reach into this infinite, and loose grip of what we should hold near. But scarce are the hands that feed me the shape of things when my eyes cannot. And so this conversation about fear, guilt, shame, anger, rage and racism made me question more than ever what purpose silence plays in me, in all of us.

So I ask you now, what if silence need only be experienced in the second and third dimension. What if each time it came I stopped and lingered in its taste, the aroma when it sways, the touch when it grips, but also when it whispers. 

What about this conversation allowed me to see a perspective darkness in me become narrow when perceived from pupils perched in another's mind. But so inhumane would I be to feed you a gospel of what suffering made holy, to leave out the gluttony the sin and powerlessness as if the absence of anything still doesn't define what it is. And so in not having any answers and still trying to find a language to ascribe this journey a purpose, a point or a destination. 

I realized that in the process of sitting in silence and in the act of interrogating It, that the narrative is the marrow, the bone and the footprints that have brought me here. The end, the silence, as I see it now dangerously underestimates the vastness of the void and the journey through it. Of the substance that fills it and that feeds the spirit. And this is where I must learn to make room for more. 

To remain unhinged in spirit and scripture. This new sensation, something in between nostalgia and touch seemed to now allow me to grip these intangibles. And so I reached for everything that gravity refuses to let go of.

But first, I must acknowledge the journey in between who and what I create. Art as an extension, and I, as artist, finding the truest reflection of self. And even more where that self belongs in the larger context of the world. Due to the fact that what I perceived myself to be was what the world wanted to make of me. And so I was never quite anything, but a manifestation of me in relation to all. When I wrote and still write. I find myself thinking of the end result rather than the journey. 

Awareness through consistency or lack their of has shown me this. I struggle these days with having learned to breathe a second time and now realizing I must make room for more. That my story, my words and my actions are for the world to perceive and I to witness. I am as much the author of what is said as I am of what is not. 

Time has made a student out of me. And so I try my best to show the duality of growth. The immense feeling of acknowledging, now, knowing better, and recognizing I knew nothing at all. To be brave in spite of myself, in spite of fear...

And what I mean to say by that, is that the end is the simplest part of a story. But all that being said I offer you and who ever reads my words but a reflection in between the ripples.

Quite some time ago, I asked myself, in a Brooklyn summer, between breeze and avenues. Where Cadillac's still sang songs and I held my breath as if that action alone would prolong time from waking and taking her from my arms. “How could I ever learn to love and let go all in one life?" and if I felt then what I feel now, I would have recognized I had already arrived at the end of a love story that had not been told. And so she, and what we had become, something resurrected from the ashes of the last ending. After, I, having had committed to fear in all its hues, between my rib cage, and stagnant breath, she caged, found no song, found no place to belong.

I say this just as I said my story is for me to witness. I cannot try to narrate the roles others embrace in my journey. To afraid I have been to live and experience the journey. I heard once that life will teach you how to live it. And so I as artist, and art as the extension did not reflect that. And so as I manifested in relation to all, my writing told the story of nothing at all.

So I've decided in spite of what you might need these words to give you, I don't want to perceive and narrate everyone's story. I don't want my words to tell the story of all and forget to witness my own. And yet and still I must make room for more.