“We all want to receive, but few of us are easily willing to let go. We love to get and hold on. We like to get attached, only for these things and people to be stripped from us by circumstances that are out of our hands. What we don’t realize is, we are all on a basketball court, hoping for someone to pass us the ball; or doing everything in our power to get the ball. And eventually we do get it. But you don’t get a point for getting the ball. To get a point you have to make a shot, which requires releasing the ball. And sometimes, if you’re not in the best position to make the shot yourself, it is wisest to pass the ball on to someone that is. Winning is about scoring, and scoring a point is all in the way you release the ball. You have to release it gracefully, and with intention, but most of all at the right time and not a moment after. The good news is, you will get the ball back again. In fact, you will find that the better you become at releasing the ball, the more likely it is for you to be passed the ball. So work on your shot, work on your release, whatever your basketball may be.”—Jaime Lee Lewis (via themovementsmoving)
A human has two stomachs, one located in the belly, and the other located in the head. And we are now living in what is being called the age of information, when in truth, we are living in the age of fast information; the age of fast food, for the mind. Google is McDonalds, and with this excess of…
I apologize for disturbing you while you are asleep.
It’s just that your voice has kept my spirit restless, nights where I’ve wished that the curtain in front of my eyes would come down and cloak the realities of my blackness.
I have seen what you sing of…
Sanguineous leaves on the pavement from Autumns in New York right back to the sound of summertime in the South with Sam Cooke
But living still ain’t easy
in this skin that I’m in.
There are no holidays for colored folk.
Our brothers walk the street in full-time fear of nigger-hunters dressed in uniform.
Or any non-colored resident in the state of Florida who carries a gun with a silencer engraved in American law.
We still sing the blues like you used to because we are in perpetual mourning.
The trees are not the only ones bare in the winter.
There are childless mothers with lips that are naked, chapped and dry, unable to kiss the oil from the face of her firstborn.
Plucked from the family tree
Left in the middle of the street
Blood puddling like the crushed grapes
In the bag of groceries he held on his way home.
They still see us as strange fruit
Food for them to eat
As if we all didn’t fall from the same tree
as Adam and Eve.