marley.

note: despite what it seems, this is a poem about the boy, not the musician. be who you are, loves. don't throw your life away trying to be something else.

-

nights spent in a smoky room,

blunt in hand, 

surrounded by ugly people

you think it will make you like him,

like the drugs will channel through you

and possess you with talent, raw, 

like the chemicals will filter into your system,

illuminating like morning light through a stained glass window 

and teach your fingers how to play,

your voice how to sing,

like your brain will rework itself 

into something better than it is

you are not bob marley

you are just a boy 

who smokes too much.

and marley was just a man

who wrote music 

and made mistakes

and smoked too much

he was not god

it is dangerous

to imitate an artist,

they are the most unreliable 

kind of beautiful

artists crack themselves open

to see what pours out,

examine ribs for lost messages

carved by swallowed demons,

trapped, and open veins 

to see what their pulse looks like

like most poets, he never learned 

to love right

made music

that he loved like a woman,

too hard 

to be healthy

you are a boy

in a room

with a joint.

you

know

nothing. 

marley turned his soul inside out

trying to find a way back to trenchtown

he was a poet.

he was a musician.

he was an artist.

he was beautiful.

and you are just stupid enough

to think it was worth it.