Written to prompts in the wounded Healers Brigade Room. Planks.. Who is George? If Squeek Is A Pimp. What did George want? Vinyl plants or vinyl planks. Profit from plastic, seems almost fantastic To buy or not to buy into the system Should George call again. Recycled capitalism, money On an endless merry go round. George just want you to pay, George has no tickets to give away. Some relish the hour of abuse of power. Birthed by a system. The very disgustingly Fractured system that targets, oppresses, And puts people in places of desperation. Why won't George listen to me? Don't need plastic planks, even if free. Can't feed the children George. Have you heard of food poverty? United Nations says that's fifty percent Of the reasons children are often sold. So fuck off George, please don't phone. Because in the end, unlike real wood. Plastic planks are cold, very cold. One more thing before I land my pain. What colours do they come in? Or are all planks the really same?

There's a message in the music Team X where, are you? Code talkers...walking on Frenetic Energy... Beastly beat, line electric. Electronica that schism Takes me to NY Underground Poppers, shirtless muscle dudes... Puffing a J behind the bar Staying out all night dancing.. Meeting the Sun, outside the club. Running home to shower.. Back out the door to work. Fried egg between bread.. Nap in the backroom Second wind...smiling... That Sister from the Bar.. Remembered me.. Slid me her number... Clocked out... Used the company phone. You going to NY Pride??? Yes...would love to ... Escort you... Hit the dance at the Palladium. Saw you free your body.. Morse Code..hot cords.. Maybe we can read each other...beep beep beep... Lyrically yours, MydNite Renaissance ❤️‍🩹

You come from a family of tall Black Women with big feet. Don't be ashamed of your height... Embrace the blessing... You are a natural beauty... Then, why do I feel like an ugly ducking? Why does beauty feel like a trap? Attention brings, sexual assault wrapped in.... Words of condemnation of being female... Embodied as a Woman... Without autonomy of being human with rights... Still considered only property... A vessel to be used up... Get over the attack, boys will be boys. That is the privilege, our entitlement... It's a man's world, welcome to rape culture. Shoulders Back, head up, dry your eyes... This experience happens to fifty percent of Black Sisters... Alone not in it...Not in it alone... Broken bodies are everywhere... Why aren't Black Sisters worth saving? I am tired, so tired... Killing isn't an option Wish it was!!! Lyrically yours, MydNite Renaissance ❤️‍🩹

If I could write consistently, it would be about love. The inspiration is the answer for our community. We all have a gift to give a point of inspiring in gratitude. Exhaling in trees running, hello world. While the cat's away, I hug trees... Sit on the memories... Weave them into stories... The fabric rich with intention. I see you... Learned through covid how to be with myself. Some people want community, but in small doses. Desire and immersive experience, which is why I attend, festivals. Family...adventures or watching the seasons... My eyes a gateway to the spirit. Life is a spectacle of beautiful collisions... Dare you hug more trees. Let your mind roam... Soaking in, observing, converting energy... Blooming etymology into showers.. Cleansing the soul and heart with healing... This parchment fertile ground or scorched earth... Both a source of growth... Your story unfolding only you can provide the narrative The majestic property of letting the pen go. The exercise of introspection is.... Intentional listening springing forth blossoms... Lyrically yours, MydNite Renaissance ❤️‍🩹

Wildly popular intelligent an kind, wonder how many people can read between the lines? Transparency hides one thing to expose another I was looking through the glass, the case for a memory They don't understand why I need to burn with him Past flows sometimes like thick cord burning through hands leaving scars, sometimes like sand slipping through grasping finger The Memory isn't hidden, it's reactive, dramatic. Knocked on the door but the devil won't let me in Living things are etched with the past, like a wooden plank carved, burnt and stained to make something new The tension in the twist, the burn in the reveal... Live wires dancing on frayed nerves… Part sinner part savior that's just who I was born to be Archangel on all fours incinerates every part of me.. Life and death come in cycles, the sunrise gives death to the night and stars, they remember and rise once more when it sets. Out of the depths, my soul rises, like a Phoenix flying into an event horizon. Do not judge him by the way his skin is his canvas Memory is etched in both the body and mind. Scars, dreams, hopes, loss, change and determination all carve molding the raw material like mud on a wheel becoming pottery. Destined to shatter back to being soil once more. Just like a bud that breaks open early... Frost encrusts its form... To the naked eye, it appears all hope is lost... Yet, it burst forth, enchanting… Eucharistic supper lays upon the altar of my lips stunning eyes that showcase what he's seen, That's who he is, reflected in pools of emerald green. The Memory of the cup, the well worn spot on the table from being twisted in deep thought while enjoying warmed water scented with natures bounty. Lasting impressions are made. Drifting in the sequence of time... Awakened by the possibilities to harness the spectacle of brilliance. So why don't you judge me the way that you judge him? Purpose, joy, pain. Things live on in other things, and history, slowly and surely builds future. Robbed by time... Are these seasons aligned in the human frailty of souls searching for their purpose..