from the same trunk we have branched out
exposing our similarities within the exoskeleton of our bark,
sprouting families of the same DNA.
labeled differently for ease of dissemination when the seasons change,
dropping wisdom back into the soil, allowing the Faith of our past
to be recirculated into the roots of a new generation.
each leaf proudly boasting its own color,
genetically identical, yet each hue denotes nothing special…
just to the eye.
becoming lustful of the flesh that boasts a different shade,
each branch becomes in competition with itself
masked by the foolish idea it is more evolved than its counterpart..
revolution has begun on the surface and it causes limbs to twist –
branches to die, reaching across to impose – to dominate;
the outward battle rages a fire that burns and scars within
slowly covering the past, and fooling tomorrows sprouts that this is the first
war of its kind.
and in the daylight, each tree dies blindly,
not realizing that its plight has become a reflection of the same genocide
happening around it.
clouds pour down rain of hope
begging with thunder to evoke a change of heart
if only, the leaves would look up once again.

please if you have critiques about my writing styles or thoughts, share. I am looking for feedback.

God Bless

False Prophets

In a world divided by paper, how can we sit complacent and demand  revival.  

When beautiful trees find themselves buried underneath concrete words of hate, how do we figure tomorrow we will have hope to breath in.

 The soil has been stained with blood, harvested with the sins of false faith. 

Following the shine of fallen stars only leads us deeper into the same black hole.

 So many are willing to sacrifice Mana for fast food, allowing our souls to die. 

Knowing all too well, they offer drinks from an ocean that leaves a seemingly unquenchable thirst. ©jdj 2017

The Eye of the Storm

Swirling desperation and hope within uncontrolled confined spaces that
bring grey to life.
Taking silence, and maddening its deafening scream –
pounding the colors out of now muted coronas.
leaving broken branches blindly beating against each other in hopes
of finding solace, in the cushion of tattered leaves.

Subsiding winds seem to lure out a false confidence between the falling raindrops,
wanting a departure from the violent thunder that berated tired fields into submission.

Buildings lie to rest and dust settles in a restless slumber –
fearing that terror creeps back between distant sighs
in the eye of the storm.
©jdj 2017


I have not forgotten that Blank Stare you left me with

 I have not let go of that emptiness that you have filled me with. I’m searching down dark alleys, I’m searching through the shadows for What’s Left of Me.

I felt your fingers trapse across the back of my neck and it chilled me to the Bone, for I  knew you had left me; long forgotten. 

Your laughter comes back to me like Memories a longtime sufferer of dementia relives, each moment as if it were happening now yet ,they are nothing but lost breaths that scatter my fears across the open-air.

 Let go let go my mind tells me but, my soul clings on

 my heart beats your name

 what am I supposed to do, lost between raindrops, hidden in the reflections of the atmosphere;

 that is where I hide, hoping that I can catch a ride down upon snowflakes and maybe stain your cheek with my love once more.©jdj2017


So I picked up the phone and HIGHLIGHTED your name,
it counted visually for me the lifetime of seconds you did not answer.

On the other end lies my heartbeat, my laughter-

a piece of my soul. 

So I exhale, holding onto this lifeline.

Watching the picture of you-seemingly smiling,

at me.

Knowing the last of that light is frozen,

in the muted frames of my cellphone screen.

Conversations of a life passed by seem to flash before me and 

I feel that quietness began to trickle down.  

I am having coversations with the memory of you and 

realize the Hello I am responding to is not real.

Hearing the tones of your voice recite such familiar words 

leaves me talking to the space between us.

Votes?  Comments?


So I am ready to embark on that journey again, to date, to love and share the intimate pieces of me l again.

It takes time to heal after divorce.

Many people in my life assumed that just because I am a man, I should have just jumped up and ran out the door and started the next relationship; yet that was not me.  

I never dreamed that I would marry and then become divorced, that I would have to let go of the person I invested everything in and vice versa.  So when the process began, I was devastated.  

Not only was I scared for myself, I was scared for my children.  How do I protect them from them pain of this as well. I struggled other watching the woman I Love be devastated as well, I felt helpless and defeated. 

Through Faith, Growth, and time I overcame the things that could have crippled me; my children. We are stronger for pushing through the storm, finding that what was waiting after it passed was worth it.   

Family is important, being a husband is what I want to be, a father, a Loving man of God that can show those around me that I am a living testimony of Love, of Faith, of forgiveness and strength.  

My scars are nothing I am ashamed of anymore, so I bear them openly.  Ask about them, the history behind each one has shaped me into the person I am today.  

God Bless those that have taken a moment to read this, to connect with a part of me.  

From my youth

For  Black History Month I thought I would share something I wrote as a teen, that entails my experiences…

So is this really my culture to bear,

just because I am the only black man in the room – does not

make me a shadow.

My voice sounds like a whip

my walk is an echo of every march to unify our Nation

my tears are rivers that lead from captivity to equality 

and when you see me – 

I am still just a wish never dreamed of

a thunderstorm you long to drive through

yet safety is found under black roof tops that shelter you from

the truth.

So I stand in every room 


Cracking my whip across misled perceptions

because being black is not a conception to be used to be 

less than

it means the scars that have been covered by progress

are not to be forgotten

the sting of once open wounds has not dissipated

only numbed

Within our hearts we relieve the triumph of everyone who

spoke and died for us

So this whip I swing back and pray you feel it snap across your conscious.  That being alive, is being human

that is what we are all struggling to be,