Not All Angels Can Fly
(For S.S.)
He was an L.A. Angel,
Could fill the room
With the power
Of his raw voice alone
Accapella,
And naked.
He would hit the stage
Spontaneously combust,
Pull a Poem from the air.
A one of a kind experience.
I would tell him
He should write that down.
He would say,
It's already gone man.
It's already out there.
Cursed with genius at twenty-three.
Genius gives and takes away.
And he did anything
To take the pain of this existence away.
He'd do anything
To fly away.
But he was rooted
To the Earth beneath him.
Rooted to the ground
On which he lived.
Living life like there was no tomorrow,
But tomorrow always came.
He was the first person to ever tell me
That my Poetry mattered.
He was the first person to ever tell me
I could make a difference.
He was the one
That put me out here,
Clinging to dreams and passion.
It's a blessing,
And I thank it every day.
It's a curse,
And I thank it every day.
I got an e-mail a couple of years ago
Saying he had moved to Istanbul.
He's happier than he's ever been,
And he's never coming back.
I guess I blamed him.
He was the one that told me to never quit.
He was the one that told me we could
Change the world with words alone.
He was the one that told me to charge at red lights.
Like they were all green.
Red light means go.
Red light means go.
Red light means go.
And he went.
The struggle goes on.
Still grinding against the machine.
The inertia of it all.
I wouldn't live
Any other way.
Red light means go.
© 2008 Michael D. Grover/Fla
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