I believe, yet.
Written by, Luke Bloomquist
I look for outlets to expose my emotions,
so I guess this pen and pad is my new best friend.
I speak ample personal truths,
as I rhyme for these falling raindrops.
For this cold hard concrete, that taught me,
to keep my feet in the sky, and my head on the ground.
Opinions used to fall at my feet;
words reaping the benefits of heaven-sent beliefs.
I was told to write what I knew, and what I believed in.
I believed that I did not believe yet.
That believing was meant for poets,
Yet, I was a seed, not readable yet.
I used to be dope. Used to flow everlasting epitomes
to elope hope in my torn and shattered note, book.
I wrote hooks, for hip-hoppers and God’s son.
And now I walk down street-lamp lit streets.
Listening to premier beats,
and rhyming for the stars to listen to.
I am my audience.
I nod my head in agreement to what I say,
What I am, what I feel, what I believe.
But I believe I do not believe yet.
That believing is meant for poets,
Yet, I’m still a seed, not readable yet.
It’s time to be a poet again.