Lying in bed that afternoon

Had me pondering many things

Will I finish college right, or

Sail away on fleeting wings?

When at that moment something

New and strange occurred to me.

Was it good? Was it bad?

I wish I could unsee.

The memory of a broken girl

Who cried at the hands of a monster.

She tried to save her younger self,

But was afraid that he'd abuse her.

The memory of a young mother

Dreading what she had seen.

Knowing that something must be

Done to this boy of fifteen.

The memory of a father's heart

Being ripped at it's core.

He had done all he could to

Help and he could take no more.

The memory of an outraged grandmother

As her grandson had done wrong.

But it wasn't the victim's who

Shared her martyr's song.

The reality of a broken child

Who was only three years old.

She never understood what had

Happened to make her feel so cold.

She didn't know why big sister would

Cry, when the night turned dark.

She wanted desperately to help

But did not know how to embark.

She didn't know why mom was angry

And always said she was sorry.

Mom never did any wrong, and

Yet she constantly would worry.

She didn't know why dad became

Silent and no longer said a word.

Was it her fault he was like this?

Whatever, it really hurt.

She didn't know why her grandma

Constantly stole her away,

To give her and the boy some time

To bond and to play.

She didn't know why brother would

Play in such an awful manner.

She never liked these terrible games,

But he never cared about her.

All at once, these thoughts flooded

Her mind, like a broken dam.

The once innocent girl, was now

no longer "happy as a clam".

No one keep the story from her.

She had known the story already.

But now to her it was no longer

A story, but a reality.

Her fury was sparked and with

The energy she had she yelled,

For the sister who tried, but

Was pulled through this wicked hell.

For the mom who stopped what

Could've been a bigger problem.

For the dad who stopped talking

And became nothing but solemn.

For the grandmother who hated

Her as a reminder of his failure.

And for him, who decided his wants

Were worth more than his behavior.

I guess I’m still a little fretful,

I’m still a little forgetful,

High as fuck

From the right to the left full,

Junkies and thieves and whores,

In this trap house full of no doors,

Broken windows plywood boards,

Cockroaches, needles,

Orange caps, cover the floor,

It’s enough to break your heart,

All these people got dreams,

Some of them got talent,

A lot of them are smart,

Sucks to be a fiend,

Good to know that a lot of them succeed,

I’d like to see all my people freed,

The suffering here is so dense it sticks to you,

Makes your clothes smell like desperation and escapism,

The same way a cigarette do,

From the top to the bottom,

Peeling paint and exterior entrances,

The cops get called every week, every day,

The place isn’t picky not like it could be,

Don’t give a shit who you are as long as you pay,

That’s the American way,

People hiding in the cinder block holes they rent by the night,

Addicted and homeless is always a harder fight,

So they hustle everyday and make money in any way they can,

In bed with a strange man,

Stealing whatever they can,

From AC units to tools and even maybe something of yours,

If they work up the nerve,

At the end of the day, Looking up at the shitty popcorn paint

Texture ceiling

Wondering, if this is all there is they feel scared

Alone and stoned, ashamed,

But glad they ain’t in a bando,

He’s in a bad spot,

Doing drugs and drinking very excessively,

You know how dicey and dangerous that can get,

Not only in the act of consumption,

But with people you begin to associate wit,

The decisions you begin to make,

Well I don’t have to elaborate,

We all know,

Where that path takes us,

Letting people take advantage of the hole in our soul and fill it for a brief moment,

Even if we were to wake up and find something stolen,

At least I wasn’t alone man,

She knows one thing,

Destruction,

Too much of a particular substance,

Ever since he bought her something,

Saw her at a function,

Thought she was beautiful,

Wanted to tear her shit down,

Turn the most pretty smile this man ever seen into a frown,

Why she got stuck with a creep,

Man it allows me to peep,

All the dirt on this street,

It goes deep,

She tried to get sober and homey comes through,

Gets her a free relapse and there she reaps,

I hope my tracks never grow.

Man my face never glows.

Makes me never wanna call a girl a ho,

Makes me never want to be mean to a addict,

No one grew up wanting to not have shit,

And when I say nothing I mean it, I’ve been there, Done that,

Bought the t shirt man I’ve seen it,

I wish I never tied or toed the line,

I wish I never tied or toed the line.

I still remember sitting in that funeral home,

Kind of sick how we all shotgunned Boh’s outside in the lot,

As baby moms passed by distraught,

Any excuse to get fucked up,

Man I should just shut up.

I’m walking on a sidewalk in a state I don’t want to be in, in a state I don’t want to be in.

I’m looking for a place to drink the concoction that I’ve been chained to for years now. The sweat dripping down my face, while my hands shake as they try to keep it out of my eyes. Withdrawal, my bodies betrayal of my attempt at keeping appearances through cheap hair product and a comb in my hair, now becoming white tinged beads of bullet large sweat, streaming down my forehead.

I know I’ve got to drink this soon, as the fear of police attention, and the desperation of a sick man compete in my head for dominance. I duck into somewhere that looks secluded enough to chug. An industrial terrain across from some train tracks. I realize that I look just as out of place here, as I do anywhere else, a pale faced, ashen sickly corpse-akin, broken-down man. I likely reek of the potion that keeps me well at this point, since my paranoia only allows me to take the swiftest of sips, spilling everywhere and anywhere in the process, trying to balance a 24 ounce can in my small inner pocket of my garbage bag faux leather jacket. I’m wearing black chino jeans and a polo, with my garbage bag jacket, and a string backpack biting into my shoulders.

Another sojourn through a mid to large sized city in Anywhere, USA. Chasing after a woman, or a friend, or a drink, or a drug, or a place. Ending in the same familiar story.

I cross back over the railroad tracks and come around a bend in the road, where some workmen pass by me in their conversion vans, giving me half interested stares. I look back at the clearing in the industrial terrain, already nostalgically longing for my brief encounter with seclusion, privacy, and artificial dignity.