Word to Brotha Wise and the uncivilized

...and I'm still trying to find em
thoughts come and go but some how the pattern still seems to stay the same
it's been a while since the last letter read before that night's dinner
trees's are worth more than just imagining
paths that lie beneath streams that flow towards a penny for a thought
cheap cool to carry for later and ferment until it turns into Friday morning amnesia
it's been awkward and black since the day words didn't have to stay on pages
feed the caged bird you bought and forgot till reminded when s/he knocked
open the box it's all there when you used to take her to buy waffles and cigarettes
remember the song but don't listen until s/he tries to impress you one last time
taste the tea to memorably forget heavy ceilings that one night s/he peaked over
i mentioned the bird, and the words, and there's no one around to change the subject on
make me feel silly for living and remembering then shout obscenities when you're gone again
deliberate misspelled names to unclaim having spent any moments of forging eternal sunshine
... for those who speak to themselves and weep to themselves at thought of what the shotgun might say. won't say nothing because a speech i made has made the shotgun speechless and mute. four score and seven more, none of that shit has to do with you and me. the things i write and forge in sight the days after s/he.