TRUTH B

              By Brian Polite

Truth be told

I can only be my self.

Truth be told

I can only b polite.

Destiny named me.

No ego in my nomenclature

Nature of my true self in my name.

I sought its science, defined it

and lived it truly to the letter

so that all words born from immaculate concepts

would be God spelled from ink spilled.

Flooding paper like Noah.

Written rainbow

when prism pen breaks on white-light page.

Truth be told to break dawn in midnight inner-minds

Sky shatters blue at the beckoning of a morning break-fast

The crack of yellow sun

yoke

sends heat

scrambling down Brooklyn streets’ summer.

Some solar souls think they sizzle…

Truth be told, they need to simmer down.

Cooking up characters ‘to be’ and roles ‘to play’

Imitating a cultural mind-state

to generate opportunities to copulate.

Birthing beings addicted to attention.

Telling truth under false pretense

Egos high on their own shit!

Soon to go up in smoke

when half-baked skills reveal

 un-leaven intellects

and bleached flour souls

who feel they only need dough.

Truth be told, they tell truth for the bread

and scrap over crumbs of the spotlight.

Their truth be told in regurgitations of someone else’s recipe

leaving me fed up.

So I hungerstrike back

with words written to rock the melting pot.

Create a cuisine of art so close to spirit

that it can’t be touched by those who try to

‘feel it wit their hands.’

Truth be told, many claim to touch soul,

but their actions show they only grasp the feel of the physical.

Truth be told, I don’t care if you feel me

I don’t write with an audience in mind

only words and images in my heart

true to my soul.

Truth be told, I avoided this poem,

afraid that everyone would agree

but no one would listen

and none would change.

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