Strands dance with the utmost coordinated imbalance. They’re bound by rhythm and are, yet, free-spirited. As I sip the green and sultry healer, coupled with the grand, golden glaze accompanying as my e-steamed guest, the heavenly haze they emit has me spelled to a cozy trance. They transform the dreary drapes’, drywalls’, and linen’s collective, dull scent into a passionately pungent one of a pirate paradise of collected relics, confiscated booty, and mounted documentation from territories conquered. As simple and humble as this tiny comfort is in this world of gargantuan horrors, “Green Forest Mist” never failed to make the end of the flattest and grayest workday animated and effervescent.
Let every vapor remain untamed. And, may every wisp cause you to reminisce on every blessing.
Once they see a black person wrote it society pauses before reading, which they don’t do with Brad and Becky’s shit. But, with yours, their expectations and stereotypes come coupled and proceeding.
For, if you’re simply devoted to the craft like Poe was and if, in your material, you’re not smooching white cheeks, white society, unlike with Brad and Becky, will say we’re angry and bitter and will never hold us in his same regard. And, the saddest of all, black society won’t even give us the courtesy of a peek.
Don’t ever get caught up in the current state-of-you. Don’t forget every seemingly invincible beasts you ever slew. Never let the monsters make you untrue to yourself, for, each time they could only lunge and claw, you flew. Never acknowledge the wingless, who, because of you, can only gnash teeth and sulkily rue.