Avenging Wind

Some of the illest shyt I ever wrote...

1. All that I am, or ever will be-is a gift, but this gift is bigger than me. True, not even I can fathom the magnitude of the dynamic-but a clarity of purpose is divined a bit more each day. And the path toward clarity of purpose seems fraught with painful trials. Such is the price for it.
2. I sing for the part of me that cannot, but wishes to cry out in joyful noises-or lamentations. I speak for the part of me that for too long has been shackled, forced to live in a prison of limits. I write of life and the conveyance of a love that is yet to be mine, but further-of my conviction to know it--whether in this life, or the next.