Family.
That word seems so foriegn and abundant. I must be grateful for the life flowing through my mother, father and grandmother because many cannot say their’s is still around.
Family: a strange word. For I am unfamiliar with the familiarity of the family’s flemsy feels toward the aroma of indifference that crowds me. They refuse to understand until I am laying dead in my coffin smiling at them reminding them of the time I just wanted to talk, show them my new book, or just be myself.
Inside The Mind of a Black Artist 