The Night I Realized the Truth

I am content.

Pleased. Satisfied. And glad.

Because I have come to learn

That my joy is nothing to be earned

And it is a treasure needless for search.

—O.D.M

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Black ‘O Black

Black ‘O Black is what they say of me.

Black ‘O Black is who they see.

Black ‘O Black is my constant reality.

Black ‘O Black is the freedom I speak,

And Black ‘O Black is who I’ll always be.

—O. D. M

Yet Praise

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

The sun still does rise,

The grass still does grow,

The wind still does flow,

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

My mind still does ache me,

My enemy still does chase me,

The lie still does break me,

Why, my soul, are you downcast,

The sun still does rise.

—O. D. M

So Much More Than This

Truth derived from happy and hard times.

There is a sound that resonates within.

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It’s been a while my dear readers. I’ve missed you all so.

I’ve missed writing the few and far in-between blog posts.

So many things have happened in the last couple of months of my life. I guess what I mean by a couple, is more so like the last three to four months of my life.

As many of you know, I’ve stuck with my internship I began in the summer with UrbanPromise Wilmington. Read about it here I’m Back UP. 1 & Beauty Within the Cracks-UP. 2.

It has been five long, difficult, and rewarding months. Time has not relented its grip on my asking for it to speed up this internship and I find myself wondering if things would be easier or would have been easier if time moved on an axis of my control and not God’s.

The funny, but not really funny thing is that…

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This is My Letter to Santa

Put a spell on my dad, so he’ll come home more.

Sprinkle him with your Christmas magic,

Place his name at the top of the nice list,

Visit him first on Christmas Eve,

And when you see him in the mall,

Remind him of my wish.

Tell him, “Your son has been great this year and all he wants for Christmas is you.”

Please, Santa, put a spell on my dad, so he’ll come home more.

—O. D. M

When Hosea Met Gomer

Love me like you would love a prostitute­.

Pursuing me into the lairs of my lovers,

Patiently yet persistently coaxing me from the arms and touch of lust.

Let lust be erased from my memory, better yet from my tongue.

For when I speak it will not be of another idol—a man-made God confessed by these lungs,

But this tongue will return tender words of their own,

And I will not only utter them, they will trickle from my mouth in the form of a song.

It will be like the melody I once sung in my youth, because this is all I know how to respond.

And even though you know my taste of the idols isn’t completely gone.

You still accept these words: “your prostitute, excuse me, your bride is now home.”

—O. D. M