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I Can’t Call It

I guess that’s why I speak to myself often,
Because I’m the only one who knows my pain,
Day to day.
You get used to it being a lone soldier for most of your time.
An outcast is what was casted upon his broken confidence,
Who I once was,
In the outskirts of Bronx, Ny…

Many souls have levitated past mine,
Did they see the glass house surrounding my soul shattered,
Yet glued in place some way,
That I doubt.

How can they have when most walk self-centered,
As I live conscious?
I wonder often…
Do we humans know what we’re doing anymore?
I’d like to think we don’t…
Hate appears to have taken over…

After drunk nights full of sober thoughts,
Where depression rots while laughter dares to twist my vocal cords into knots,
I’m methodical on how I handle every hair follicle as I pull at my scalp with confusion.

Riddled as to why we exist,
I break the world down into an Anomaly,
As we’re ruled by monopolies,
All seeing eyes watching constantly,
Buried in lies and violent atrocities,
Innocents killed on site,
A renewed public policy,
While we help pile on the bodies…

How is any side deserving,
When spilling blood has been cauterized and nurtured into human nature,
Following the tutelage of false saviors,
Then protest against those who kill us,
Just to go back home and kill our neighbor?…

I can’t call it.
Although I’m worried at times of waking up without water running through my faucet,
Working two,
Three jobs just to get by,
Like most,
I’m not sure if I’ll make it upstairs alive,
Or get a call to add on to my list of losses,
I used to receive quite often…

Maybe I’ll be better off in hell,
Because as an adolescent, that’s where I was told I belong,
A fiery prison,
Where my parents and D.O.E system kept me imprisoned…

And was any one sympathetic,
Knowing I was youth in need of guidance?
I was Spic in the eyes of many rather than a diamond,
Cut from the roughs of a stolen island,
Where a sea of small fry reside in to be eaten by Lions,
Concrete jungles,
Running from police sirens,
And street thugs seduced by pseudo pleasures of violence…

So scratch what I said in the beginning.
I guess that’s why I speak to myself all the time.
Everyone’s busy trying to bury lives…
Just put me in a hearse,
At least then I can enjoy the ride,
With my friends driven to the pearly gates by a bullet,
Coming from a person who looks like you,
And I…

No one screamed black lives matter when my black brother died,
By his own kin,
While I watched his mother cry…


This is a piece I had written a few years back. Reading it back, it’s relevant today. So, I figured I can share this with y’all. Please enjoy and remember, peace & Love ❤

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