For three years now I have been writing… my confessions, my secrets, and my experiences in a form of poetry that I thought only I could understand. Over the past few months those words have been speaking to me from those pages. I realized that this was no journal I was putting together. This was an allegory… a book of sorts that would betray me and publish itself before it allowed to just sit on my desk, because sometimes those skeletons in your closet have just enough life in them to speak for themselves, and no matter how many flowers you plant over the dead to make a pretty garden, it still doesn’t hide the fact that there is a cemetery in there. This book is not exactly the rose on top of the casket, but more like the embalmed mouth that just wont be buried until it speaks its final words. Some feelings may get hurt, some secrets exposed, and some hearts offended, but art is the justification for all things adverse.

This story became one of destruction, the external kind, as well as the kind that takes place within oneself. In coping with disaster, I have realized how people can become conditioned to live off what we can barely afford to give them, and how we can’t escape that undying need every one of us shares. All we need is love and water…

When I came back to my city, I came face to face with all the people affected by this need. Those surviving off of just that, and those living with everything but. This need for love and water is one that everybody shares… differently.

“Love and Water”
the book
the mixtape
the documentary
the revival…
The Voice of Reason