YOU DO NOT KNOW MY STORY?

I  was the child who gave his mama a hard time every time he would go out and break into rhyme. no, I did not carry a gun but a notebook and pen in my hand. I was the poet with a gypsy soul until age and love got a hold of me opening my eyes to the things and ways that I needed to set myself free and not the son of an outlaw or maybe just another free spirit who was only trying to find another way home to where they belong.

You look at me and hear the words that I so say with such great love and passion but did you ever stop to listen to my story, read the pages that make you rush through sentences with tired fingers and eyes until you hit the next chapter?

Do not look at me with pity or guilt for I do not want your sympathy, it is people like you that make me laugh as you take your bath inside of someone else's religion, and I take mine inside of my spirituality. you do not know my story nor my strength or my glory