by Micah Kimber

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released August 30, 2019

Recorded by Brad Kathman
Mastered by Andrew Alojipan @ Tumtum Studios


all rights reserved



Micah Kimber, Mustache Poetry Statesville, North Carolina

My heart is to Love and connect with others by sharing art.
We're each valuable individuals, made in God's image, with art worth sharing.
If you create, share. If you aren't creating, scared of how it'll turn out or how others will respond, I understand. But art is self expression. It's for YOU first. If it's real, you'll want to be heard and someone will hear.
If anything, share it with me.
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Track Name: Passionate

It opens up to a sky, like any beginning, begging to be original. It's referential so that you can understand it and quote it, but there's evidence, you'll notice, that it's been written and rewritten like a love note you thought you were going to give her before the last bell the first day of 8th grade and now you're worried it's too blurry from the sweat of your palm as you hear your name called and your family shouting from the bleachers.

Written and rewritten like something in cursive of which the meaning's been stripped because that's not what's important. What's important is this: accomplishing what you set out to do because you're passionate.

Because you're not nondescript, you're intricate.

Because you don't have to be in conflict with the intimate, in cognitive dissonance, because you're cognizant of your potential and repentant of pestilential thoughts that say you're not.

Don't be distraught.

A starving artist, starving yourself of influence just to avoid creation just to avoid attention isn't sparing you of pain, it's self inflicted shame claiming you're not responsible for feeling optional… but you are.

If you don't accept that love note, that cursive, that sweat soaked courage, then you can't expect others to and won't give them the opportunity to pay their dues. They're not here to push you away, even if they'll try to, that's not their call, that's you deciding to walk away from what you want.
Track Name: Create
A boy stands alone in a corner clutching a book.
A corner because it makes him feel safe, a book so that he can escape.
He picks up a pen and in his hands it makes a sound like the latch of an iron gate, heavy and grating, well weathered against times of neglect, even shame, but as patient for it's keeper as the road for the wheel.
He lifts the book cover--a crane carrying a foundation or a stork the first babe of a generation--either way we all know how beginning can feel.
He leafs through pages.
Licks his fingers like wounds, peeling back paper like layers of dead skin and new. He was young then, still thinking that to feel is to heal.
He places the pen between margins, script flows from his head like a mane.
Planting his heart like a garden, giving his vision a name.
Every stroke is a river, every river bears life.
Yes, the hurt write in blood, but at least you know they won't lie.
His pen dances like myths echo over hills, through the mist.
Watch the glimmer in the corner become fire in our midst.

He was made to create.
His soul's a creation, you could call art innate.
To write is to build, sculpt, direct, and to paint.
To express in his image, give back the glory God gave.
Track Name: Ancients
The air we breathe is ancient, and heaves dust throughout it's lungs.
Fracturing when plain men sing, with every bell that’s wrung.
Blend of the dead and the living, of the rains and the dusts.
Incubates, destroys, sustains, rewards, and rusts.

“God made dirt and dirt don't" feel no pain.
Dust to dust before ashes ever came into being.
If I should count the sand would it outnumber the years since its birth?
“Do you know where that's been?” Yeah, on the ground, danced on by the rain.
Just like everything on earth.

Drink deep.
The timeless seeps in.
Glasses emptied, and filled with the ancient. Laugh, my friends.
Turn the faucet. Let it bleed thin.
Fill the sink, find the crack in floor boards. Older than the very concept shame and sin. Straight from the ocean floor of an age forgotten, down the cheek of the honest at his end.
Track Name: Golem
Intrinsically inscripted, we bear words like bones
Drawn from the ground with a finger printing homunculus tomes
We are living, bleeding, ink breathing out creating on our own
Pulsating verses, blesses/curses, poems chiseled in stone

Hide this dust beneath Your nails so I can watch You work
Handcrafted myths, grafted within the shists of the earth
Golems in doldrums, no shem, and clay for a berth
But still You chose to count the sand, sloppy wet spit in the dirt
and rub the grit in our eyes so that we can behold our worth
Track Name: The Last Son
Flash your smile at the door, show excitement and delight!
Box office premier, bring the family for a good time.
See the tale of a Black Masked figure, lone in the night, slashing a "Z" in hopes that you'll catch a few tonight in safety.

Front row sits a boy, bright eyed and loved. With hopes and dreams, and folks who beam over him. (He was their riches.)
With every flick of the blade the boy's smile widens.
Oh, to be a hero is a lonely hope and dream.

Fly home.
Hold onto the moment like the loving hands you held back then.
It's almost as if they were still yours to hold.
When fear becomes you remember what your father said before-

The cowardice shots echo against the walls of his memory.
They pale in comparison to the bravery of the blade. And paler still, the faces long lost behind the sobs of a boy who never needed more than to hear the word, "son."

Fly home.
Hold onto the moment like the loving hands you held back then.
Hold onto the memories of their smiles... the only pearls you ever valued.

They used to tuck in the blanket of Knightfall draped across his shoulders and kiss his cheek. Let him dream of adventure and wake to their eyes. But when trembling tears fall in the wake of a storm, it's the words of a father that make an orphan a hero.
Track Name: Adoption
Like a chip off the ole block, from a short apple tree, we fall head over heels for our mother's songs and our father's stories,
our brother's longing to be ignored, and our sister's longing to be adored.
Whether grafted as a sapling or planted as a seed we have come to call one another family.

"Accept me," we cry. "Accept we," they reply, "who have not asked of you or for you, whom you did not choose!"

Let us eat and drink;
Exchange gifts and ointments;
Wash feet, think not of money but of provision; Ask not for gifts but give thanks for what's given;
For unto us is born this day in the family of David a child we do not recognize but Love.
In whose eyes we see the fruit of our lives.

God, thank you for birth,
For adoption,
For the knowledge of Lovers,
For not calling us options but calling us covered.
Commanding us to reproduce but giving us our druthers so we can choose to obey you in joy not excuse.
So You can pour into our lack Your provision, So we can give back as we're given,
So my heart and their hearts can have the same vision,
So we can live and breathe and speak as children.

We are a twinkle in His eye,
A blinding light on a dark road calling crooked streets home and pharisees "brothers."
We are thieves in the night, stealing time away from our merry men for our Lovers.
We are weaned in time for the fattened calf to be slain in preparation of our supper.
We are sons.
Track Name: Home.
I held fast to days when I knew arms would hold me close, but seconds in sleepless places were longer.
A restful craving for my restlessness to rest it's head. How long did You spend with no sure place to dream?
Yet in a peace that a storm couldn't wake, You awoke to take its breath away.
At Your whisper my wanderings relinquish.

File in: orphaned, evicted, and homeless.
File down to golden hearts hiding hopelessness.
Open up.
A tear can carry your weight when it has a shoulder to call home.

When open doors are open arms, you'll find eyes with a fire to warm by.
A heart to dance to in the company of Love, One that calls you home.

Give us, this day, the Body we broke in brokenness, that we may never lift a hand to each other again.
The table is set. Brothers, sisters, dine.
Drink of the endless Vine, rooted in the heart of It's branches.

This isn't just some house, this is a family.
Do you hear the Fire beneath the mantle passed down to me?
Prodigal daughter or son; here is a place for you, come.
I see behind your doubt a longing for a taste of home.

At the end of the day, You call me home.
You call me, Home.
You call me "Home."
I call You "Home."

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