I wrote this poem some time ago. It comes with a sobering truth. It lets go of emotions, hopes, and fears and embraces reality. This could be a very morbid poem, or it could be an entirely liberating one.

I decided to share this as a follow-up to two things.

First was a talk I heard from Stacey Abrams. She said we keep looking for some kind of savior, the way our parents looked to Martin Luther King or to elected officials. But an autocracy can only be interrupted by a great, communal coalition of people.

This is also a good follow-up to the story I shared the other day about the four mountains closing in. See it here:

When we close our eyes, it’s hard to see, so we imagine delusions of our future. When we open our eyes to what’s really here, our path forward becomes clearer.

This is the spirit of awakening. The way of the bodhicitta.

We Are The Ones We’ve Been Waiting For

A poem by Shabazz Larkin

No One is Coming

In the quiet hours of the night,

When shadows dance with fading light,

We search the skies for signs above,

For a hand to guide, and a heart to love.

But the moon remains,

still and far,

No savior riding on a star.

No voice to calm our nightmares and fears,

Not enough cleanex to dry our tears.

Preachers and prophets may whisper ancient stories,

Of heroes bold in days of glory,

But their swords are rust,

their glory dust,

And their movements lie in

the earth’s crust.

No one is coming to save us

but us,

No divine scripture, no martin luther

king to trust.

The god we seek is in our veins,

In blood and bone, in joys and pains.

We are the ones we’ve waited for,

The keepers of our inner chores.

With fists empty, we rise and stand,

Our destiny within our own hand.

Through all the wack news,

we find our way,

if you can hear what I’m saying,

you’ve survived

every day. 

Every trial.

Every shade.

Even when you do the job and don’t get paid.

No bricks are needed for the house you made.

Even if you stumble,

your path

is yours 

alone,

To make this flesh and bone a home.

No one is coming to save us

but us,

We keep writing and rising as we must.

In our own presence,

we find a god

to trust.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.

In the mirror our hope is found.   

Our courage blooms,

when our own spirit guides,

Holy is the ground that we abide.

in our own presence, a power lies—

To lift us out of a sleep.

Get up!

No one is coming to wake us up.

There is no wine made from water in our cup.

No one is coming to make us rich

Or pull us out of the darkness ditch

No one is coming to save us

but us,

And us,

my friend,

my son,

my daughter,

my love,

The resilience in US is a truth to trust.

Get up!

No one is coming to save us

but

us.

More

The more you take,
the more you need.
The less you make,
the more you 
                                   breathe.

The more you look, 
the tighter the chain,
the more you book, 
the deeper the strain.

The more you crave, 
the more you’re caught.
The more you get, 
the more you want.

It 
ain’t 
enough.

My, my, my.

The more you win, 
the less you hold,
the more you chase, 
the more you’re sold.

The more you seek, 
the more you’re sought.
The more you think, 
the less you’re taught.

The more you be, 
the more you’re not.
The more you fish, 
the more you’re caught.

The more you take, 
the more you need.
The more you eat, 
the more you greed.

The more you strive, 
the less you gain,
the more you reach, 
the more the pain.

The more you grasp, 
the more you won’t.
The more you have, 
the more you don’t.

Ain’t 
no 
satisfaction.

My, my, my.

The more you yearn, 
the more you’re bound.
The more you search, 
the less you’re found.

The more you cling, 
the more you fear.
The more you speak, 
the less you hear.

The more you fight, 
the less you win.
The more you struggle, 
the less you begin.

The more you hide, 
the less you become.
The more you rub, 
the more you’re numb.

The more you push, 
the more you spin.
The more you grit, 
the less you grin.

The more you grasp, 
the more you won’t.
The more you have, 
the more you don’t.

Can’t get no satisfaction.
My, my, my.

For most of life, 
we spin and weave.
The more we grab, 
the more we grieve.

Ain’t no satisfaction.
My, my, my.

          The less we 
cling, 
the more we 
free.
The less we 
          grasp, 
the more     
           we 
receive.

For most of life, 
we spin and weave.
The more we grab, 
the more we grieve.

Baby, 
ain’t 
no 
satisfaction.

My, my, my.

No pushing, no pulling,
no hustling, no money can buy,
all the things I want in my eyes.

I can’t get no 
satisfaction.

xo

a song written by Shabazz Larkin

I wrote this song in a time where I was getting a lot of what I wanted and loosing everything I needed. I love writing music. So I pulled together this jazz collective of sound robots called Broke Jazz to help bring it to life.