The cassette danced around my mother’s Camry
To the percussion of a road that we weren’t on Demanding space Demanding recognition Rattling like a world unhinged, bursting from his plastic barriers Begging to be rewound, studied, captured in the black hands of a black girl in the backseat. What a world to be in, I thought! If purple raindrops of royalty could never stop, the lightning must fly like lavender pedals. He stayed by my side the rest of the trip Until my mother asked for him, reaching back the lyrics catapulting from her heart the speakers her lips Listen to this part, she would say. He kills it! Contorting her fingers all over the steering wheel like guitar strings and madness Her voice and his riffs would wrap around the open road and choke that empty space– the miles between us and home cracking the chains off my mother’s memory Stretching her face to the place that many artists go once they truly find themselves I never forgot this praise dance for the downpour This pull towards freedom that my mom and him translated for me so early in my artistic journey That response to the calling To find one’s self is not just for the sake of being comfortable in this world But for the purpose to unravel into something more With Gratitude, Tayllor Johnson Creative and Administrative Assistant to Kevin Powell and BK Nation
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AuthorTayllor Johnson currently resides in New York City where she has begun her journey into Poet. Passion. Period. In between those learning moments, she sometimes has just enough time to jot a few lines... Archives
March 2021
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