My room is a sight of order. Everything has its place. Everything in my closet hangs first by what kind of shirt it is than by color. By shoes, I have a lot, are all color and brand coordinated (no Reeboks mix with my Nikes and my Timberlands and Rockports are always kept apart). I'm a little OCD. I know. It blows.

The disarray that assaulted me on this early Saturday morning would have bothered me if I had not found the several boxes labeled "Old School Shit", "Pictures", "Legal Shit", and "Bills". I skipped over the last one and dove into the other three with a cautious excitement I reserve for painful memories.

"Legal Stuff" contained the usual shit. Documents full of different legal entanglement I had gotten myself into over the years, subpoenas, blah, blah, fucking-blah. Nothing special. Nothing I really wanted to look at. I unceremoniously tossed the box under the bed and roughly gave the contents inside the finger.

"Old School Shit" was semi interesting. Report cards my mother had saved from grade school to when I "graduated" with my GED, papers I had wrote, art projects from the 2nd grade, and the other stuff. A whole lot of bright colored construction paper held together with a ton of Elmer's Glue. Nothing really brought a lot of memories back to me with this stuff. Repeating the action of tossing the box and giving it the bird I moved on.

"Pictures". I paused at first. This was a box I always worried about opening. With it came emotions. That's something I really don't know how to handle. Emotion. It's a sum-ofa-bitch. I hate emotions. Maybe it's because at a young age I was emotionally crippled by a father who forced his youngest son to fight the biggest kid in neighborhood after the bully sent said son home crying. My dad sent me back out with this threat, "You don't come back crying. If he beats you, you take it like a man and don't cry. But you better not come back the loser. If you have to pick a rock up and hit him than do it. Suck it up pussy!" Those words still ring inside of my skull from time to time. Shocking I know but that's how my dad was raised. Oh well. I'll get over it.

Opening the box caused more emotions. I took the pictures out of the box stacks at a time. I swiftly rifled through them. Pictures from my youth looked ancient. I was so happy than. Even with a fucked up dad I could smile. The pictures progressed through the years. When I was a teen my happiness slowly degraded into a constant anger and fear. My choices through my teen years had twisted the once happy child into a monster that despise himself and could only react in violent ways. The pictures continued to change. Than I found the picture I hated to love. The picture that always caused a nostalgic fear that ran through my very soul.

The picture itself is unremarkable. Me and my close buddies. There is five of us total. Me, Cullin, Sam, Deshaun, and Eric. These were the people that I love and can partially blame for everything I had become. All of them except Eric.

When I was 17 I got arrested on an assault charge. I was sentenced and spent my senior year of high school and the next few years inside of the state pen. Where most kids enjoyed Prom, had their Senior parties, and took the ACT/SAT I lived a different life. I enjoyed the Rec-Yard, three hots and one cot, and 18 months inside the Secured Housing Unit. How different my life had been because of my affiliation with these people.

The picture was the last known record I had of the "family" being together. Death had torn us apart. Brick by fucking brick.

The date "it" was taken was just three weeks prior to when my best friend, my brother really, Eric would pass away from his third fight with brain cancer. In the picture Eric sat in a lawn chair in front of the four of us. His whole form spoke of fatigue. He was normally white but he was pale even for a white kid. The cancer had taken it's toll. He knew he would die but none of us wanted to accept it. Eric had been the glue that kept us all together. He was my confidant, my spiritual guide, and the one I could always rely on. When he died I went into a horrible depression that caused my incarceration.

Eric is the reason I hate this picture. Eric is the reason I love this picture. The picture showed me that there was a time when I wasn't paranoid of people being behind me, I wasn't scared of being alone for extended periods of time, and when I wasn't so disgusted with myself.

Holding the picture in my hands allows me-no, makes me feel emotion. It makes me deal with the reality that Eric is no longer here in the flesh, that I will have to overcome my many paranoia's, and that I need to allow myself to feel comfortable in my own skin. I hate to love this picture.

Tears are so foreign to my family. The warm wetness that pours down my cheeks startles me. I don't know why I cry. My dad threats rings to an almost deafening tone in my skull. I shake my head once to knock him out. He deserves that.

Taking a deep breath I set the horrible blessing next to my right thigh and replace the rest of the pictures. I repeat the motion of tossing the box under my bed and give it a sorrowful F-U finger. Taking the dreadful picture in my hands, I dry my eyes, take another deep breath, try to smile, and set the picture on my nightstand.

Kail, I just wanted to say that I read your first post here, and that I found it very moving and very captivating. Writing nonfiction, especially about your own life and the events in it is often described as one of the harder forms of writing, as life is continuous and has no real plot. However, just in this first short peek into your world, we can clearly see how one thing and one thought lead effortlessly into the other. It's very well done.

In terms of critique, I really don't have much to offer. You've made a couple of minor grammatical errors (the one that I noticed a couple of times being the word 'than' rather than 'then.' Than is just used when comparing or contrasting two things.).

As for the story itself that you told, it was very emotional, and I thank you, first of all, for being so open to sharing with us. Your life truly has seen so much heartache and pain, and you've had to deal with so much more than the average person. I know it probably doesn't help, but I'm so sorry that you had to watch as your friend Eric lost his battle to cancer. I can't even imagine.

The way your father treated you, in addition, was a bit shocking to me. I know that there are some men out there who are equally afraid of emotions and showing them, and therefore pass that fear and loathing onto their children, but to force you into fighting back a school bully (one that is also larger) and to warn you not to cry is just -- I'm sorry -- not very good parenting.

Moving past the awkwardness of society in terms of crying and shedding tears and onto more medical and physical reasons behind the solely human reaction... Researchers have found that tears contain stress hormones. This is a critical finding, since we know stress hormones cause damage to virtually all bodily systems. Therefore, crying provides people with a sense of relief. Crying is a natural and essential biological function that results in the elimination of stress hormones connected to every imaginable stress related health problem. To encourage people not to cry, is to encourage them to bottle up their anxiety and stress, which can drastically effect them negatively throughout the entire body.

Anyway, I just wanted to say well done, and I look forward to reading more.

Kail, I wanted to say that I absolutely love this.

Now, I haven't been through these kind of experiences before, but I have been through some stuff, and I think you've just inspired me to write about them.

Kail; this is amazing.
I love both your strength and your weakness. It's something that I can personally relate to.



~Eternity

Thanks everyone for the feed back. I appreciate that.

-Fate: Thanks a ton for pointing that out (I'm not being sarcastic at all when I say...err...write this). I'm still working on the grammar. School wasn't very interesting to me back in the day so I never really learned a whole lot of grammar rules (let's hope college can change that). As I've read over this... Essay? Story? Testimony? [insert title here] I realize that I have painted my dad in a pretty bad light. Yes he does have his faults. Yes he did force me to go back out and fight. But sitting here write now, in the wee hours of the morning after a long night of talking with my significant other, I've realized that my dad did what was best for me. I know shocking. Now this may seem hard to comprehend but let me finish. My dad did what his dad did to him. They forced their respective son to go out and face something that was terrifying. They didn't handle it very well but they did teach "the son" something of value. There is nothing in this world to be afraid of. I think that is something of worth. That lesson, although horribly taught, has helped me over come the darkest hours of my life.

Bah! I've gone rambling again. I sincerely thank you Fate for your critique. It does mean a ton to me.

Eternity- Thanks also. Know that there is nothing special about me (save I'm just me). We all have lived a life, have lives to live, and we will all go through those dark times when the rain seems to never stop. Thanks.

I truly respect that you can look back and be grateful for the man those lessons helped you to become. I'm sure that your father wasn't trying to be horrible or evil, and that he was doing what he had been taught to do and what he thought would help you. So, I'm just glad to hear that helped to make you a stronger person.

Yes. Seeing you tell something of your life like that has inspired me to tell something of mine; something I've already written out just never shown anyone.

You say you're not anything special Kail, but how can we look in from the inside and tell something like that? Sometimes you don't know much about anyone until you step outside of yourself and look in from a new point.

NOW I have a question, dearest Kail.

I saw you on RPG, and noted that you made a character in the dying roleplay about runaways.
And it was a picture of a guy, bla bla.
Well in Chaotic Anatomy, it was the same guy; different picture.

Is this guy you or someone you know?

The guy in a picture is a rapper I really respect. I've met him on several occasions and he's... Different from a lot of celebrities/rappers I've ran into. His name is Maino. He spent 10 years in prison when he was growing up. For one of my jobs I work security at a local night club that a lot of famous rappers come to perform and spend the night at. I had the chance to sit and talk with him and his entourage for a few hours. He kept it real with me (plus, that was the closest picture I could find that looked like my characters ).

XD

I actually listen to Maino, it's just I've never seen a picture of him. Don't I feel dumb?
XD

Sounds like a cool job, by the way.

This will be a several part posting. It's about the decisions I made that landed me in prison. It may seem like nonsense to a lot of you but this was part of my life.


-----------------
I've seen death every year of my life. Growing up where I grew up you become... Immune to the fear of dying. You know it will come. Whether it's by natural causes, someones gun, or a stray bullet from a different situation. Thats just what it is. Thats life.

When I was younger I was always on the corners. I spent time with the guys that made money, that had nice things, that seemed like they would get out of the hell I lived in. The truth of everything was that with every single cent they made on those corners they placed another nail in their respective coffins, gave a little bit of their soul to Satan, and made it even more impossible to leave.

Most kids admire stars when they grow up. I see my little nieces and nephews wanting to be a dark skinned Hannah Montana (lord I hope that passes) or one of them wants to be the next 50 Cent (I'll kill him if he sells out like that). I saw my nephew the other play like he was Michael Weston from the TV show Burn Notice. Thats what most kids admire growing up. Me? Well... I was a little different.

My parents were amazing people. My dad worked hard as a manufacturer at a local steel fabrication shop, my mom stayed at home and raised the four kids (me being the baby of the group) and it was good. The problem was I sat on the front porch ( I couldn't leave unless my mom or pops took me with them) and watched the world fly by. I saw kids a year or so older than me with amazing things. New shoes, clothes, pagers, all that stuff. All the stuff I wanted they had. What the hell! I knew their parents weren't rich like that. So how did they get it?

I left the porch. I saw that these older guys stood on these street corners all day. They hung out, drank a little, smoked a little, and got money. That was the life they led! At 9 years old how could a teacher tell me that the guys who stood on those corners were bums, they wouldn't amount to nothing, and they were heading down a dead end street. How could anyone possibly tell a 9 year old that! How can you teach a young kid to stick with school, do your time, and eventually in 12 years you'll have a diploma and you might be able to make in a year what those guys make in a single month. You can't explain that rationally to an irrational youth.

I made a decision to be those guys. Except I didn't want to be those guys, I wanted to be the boss of those guys.

Enter mistake number 1.

Being a corner work is simple. You buy product, you cook product, you get double product, than you sell your product at a competitive price. The consumers don't give a damn who you are just as long as the price is right. Being a corner worker is like being a worker at a gas station or super market. You make minimum wage. But being a corner worker you make less than that.

Think about this. Your at work close to 18 hours a day. Simple enough. At any one time you have close to 2 life sentences on your person (depending on the state you live in). So yes you might clear close to 30,000 in straight cash a month. But weigh that against the 365 days you might get arrested and spend a long ass time in jail. So for that 30,000 you made in a month you spend 5 years in prison. Teachers make over 100,000 in those 5 years. Do the math. You work for a lot less than minimum wage being that guy on the corner. It's like a little kid in a sweat shop. That's what you get paid being that guy. So where's the money?

The money is in distribution. That was my goal at one time. Being the guy that everyone came to. I wanted to be like Pepsi if Coke disappeared. I wanted to be the only guy in my city who you could get stuff from. Than I saw death. It came from around the corner.

Tupac was right when he said he saw death around the corner. I was on the corner at 10 years old. It was the good life. I had a new pair of Jordans on, some nice new jeans, a new t-shirt, expensive watch, and a little gold chain. Nothing flashy but you could tell I wasn't living off an allowance. I remember this part like it happened just a second ago.

I can't define how a gun shot sounds when you don't know where it's coming from. It's a mixture of fear and joy. Fear because you don't know who is shooting where. And joy because it's a sound I've always associated with being safe/happy. That day, when I heard the sounds of the gun firing I shook in my new shoes. An older guy from the neighborhood was on the corner with the rest of us. He was wild dude. Always into something. Always doing something. He was shady though. You couldn't trust him.

I saw him get struck with three bullets. The image is so vivid. The movies do it justice. You don't see the bullet enter. You see the impact. The body falling. The hole. The blood. The smoke rising from the wound. The crying. The pleading. The look in the mans eyes when he finally gives the ghost up. The glaze of death. It's shocking. It's a rush. Your heart thumps fast but you want it to jump out of your chest so you don't have to keep looking at the shell of a human that was just joking about a woman he fucked the night before.

Paranoia is something I've grown to accept and live with on a constant basis. It's a part of my life. That moment right there, at 10 years old, I became paranoid.

"I've never seen a man cry until I saw a man shot/ Fuck pride bullets are to damn hot." -Jadakiss, "Jada's Got a Gun"

Those lyrics never rang more true to me at that time. I must admit that seeing death did a few things for me. It made me paranoid for better and for worse. It also made me want to change careers. No longer was I going to be the corner worker turned distributor. I wanted to go to school. I wanted to do the work to live a normal life.

But than again, the choice to go to school landed up in the same place I would have gone if I stay the corner work.

Again, your writing is beautifully done and I love reading this.

I never was so deep in the situation you were in, but I've been around a lot of things like this. Knew a lot of people who disappeared on the streets. Dated a guy who went out every night, his gun tucked tight at his waist, his head loose.

I remember the first time I heard a gunshot...

I was looking through some old papers and found the papers I kept from being inside. I started writing songs and poetry before I started writing anything else.

So here we go. The feelings of a man when your only friends are the bricks of your cell and the small light you write next to.


----------------------
Chorus sung by my friend, all words in () are also sung by her

[chorus]:
take me away, from all the pressures of living today and save me I feel so low/
I dont wanna live, when you appear take my soul,just go, I wanna come go/

take me away from all the pressures of living today and save me I feel so low/
I dont wanna live, when you appear take my soul,just go, I wanna come go/

I dont wanna live

[verse 1]

rather actin then clappin'
attackin' rappers it happens to happens it happens
i wanna (take my own life)
something that goes on inside of my head
cuz im only alive till im dead
(that competes a day)
keep the gun with me cocked humble my squad
nobody knows my number ,but god
and homie(in a short time)
even a paradise is a heaven the dice is a seven you'll eternally burn
maybe(this is how it goes)
i think you need to wake up
you only here just to take space up
you make it as you break up(and it so real)doom!!
if you been to a funeral before you felt the grim reaper in the room
(cuz death comes a day)
yes, you can only guess, which one of you next(which ones goin be)
but(could it be me)
maybe but you dont think about it though till them waitress replaced by daisies

[chorus]2x

take me away, from all the pressures of living today and save me i feel so low
i dont wanna live,when you appear take me soul, just go, i wanna come go

take me away, from all the pressures of living today and save me i feel so low
i dont wanna live when you appear take my soul,just go, i wanna come go

(sometimes i wanna cry)

[verse 2]

askin myself why? is it the fake cowards collide
real soldiers defy,but(it should be the other way)
dog,i feel you, dont let em' get to you,
i love you,and you know who you are(can you tell me the game)
i just hope you use your soldiers wisely
cuz likely the truth will come out in the ending(and when is it that time)
we break bread reflect back
chill with the lord and wait for the next pack(for more hungry mc's)
the new breeze climbin these trees
singin the deeds,ya'll remind me of me,ha(cuz this is your life)
yeah,soul is sellin your whole intelligent mode
is exposed to the devil,yeah(and when you look back)
you never get to look back flow a hook back
it's over yo he took that,but(he can take me)
im right here
thought i was chasing a dream, shit i was chasin a nightmare

[chorus]2x

take me away,from all the pressures of living today and save me i feel so low
i dont wanna live, when you appear take my soul,just go, i wanna come go

take me away,from all the pressures of living today and save me i feel so low
i dont wanna live, when you appear take my soul,just go, i wanna come go

Wow, that's amazing skill you have. :3

I write poetry, but I uh, never share it with anyone unless I write it as a song; and even then I keep a lot of that stuff inside. XD

I'm just odd, but I might throw something up here one day.

:3 You should try to share your work with others. It's very good, and you've got talent.

I wrote this with the though in mind of Pain. Making him a person. He (Pain) is telling me (Kail) about himself. Warning me, conversing with me.

---------------------

Who?

I could strike physically or mentally or
I exist in you, I'm wit' you get your sense of the call
I have no sense of humor, I vent, you must
Stay the fuck out of my way, I'm too much
I'm the first to let you know if something is real, I come
Right before the comforter squeal, I'm something you feel
Go ahead try to fight with me bitch do the best that you do
I could be hard, I could be soft I'll even let you choose
I exist upon the impact of a flying fist
Always show up unannounced on you coward, I'm kinda sick
What that man shoot that gun at me for, you still alive
I'm a riot not numb anymore punk ass now die
I command fear, so be afraid, be very afraid
You get carried away, then I'm a see you
Coward you better keep the heater with you
I'm waiting for you dog
Cause theres somebody that wanna see me with you
Keep an attitude, I'm evil
Spiteful, stay mad at you motherfuckin' practical people
Trust the one you love and I'm a make you cry
You even try to fight drugs and I'm a take its side
The only thing that stronger than me is time, and yours is limited
And I'm involved in it 'til you all finished
I despise you, thats why I surprise you
Even if your mother dies I'm a fuckin' remind you
I want you walking in front of a truck or a car
Cause I hangs out at these hospitals like a club or a bar
If you afraid; be, cause I'm so hard
Only one who can stop me is your God that made me
So, he is your witness, I am your sickness
I got every human being alive on my hitlist
I'm still in your way, I'm still under your skin
You don't want me but you would give me away? Then fuck you
Everyone better know than I'm something they'll never know
All you'll ever know is that hurt his name


Coward I'm pain (Pain; I'm comin' for you)
You know that I will hurt you (I'm comin' for you)
You know I'll rise to hurt you (I'm comin' for you)
And you know I'll be back soon
Coward I'm pain (Pain)
Yeah, I hope you like the name (I'm comin' for you)
No need to fight the pain (He will be comin' for you)
Cause he will strike a-gain

June 14th marks the 6 year anniversary of one of my best friends death. His name is Eric. Although this has been delayed, I feel compelled to write this. I take this as an honor to tell about our relationship to some of the people that will read this, and hopefully come to understand that we must take our friendship and love for those that are around us seriously because the only thing that we are promised in the end is death.



I first met Eric in the 7th grade. He was a white, pudgy kid that could be called....Well...A wigger. He always wore a black du-rag, baggy jeans, jersey's, Southpole, Ecko, Rocawear, Sean John, etc. etc. shirts. At first I thought this kid was just weird. He was trying to be something he wasn't. That was until he stood up for me.

In the 7th grade, as with most teenage boys, I went through a lot of changes. Puberty, starting to notice that girls were scary yet amazingly fun to talk to, and the most important thing of all: trying to fit in. Those were, are, and still will be the challenges of any teenager. It's a vicious cycle.

I grew up in a neighborhood that was primarily black and Hispanic. I'm an Islander. I look black but if your black you know I'm not. I know it sounds crazy but its true. So instantly I was set apart from the rest of the student population. I was the only, let me repeat that, ONLY Islander that went to my middle school and high school. I was different. That was something I didn't want to be.

Art Class was something I used to excel in. I always had something of a natural talent for art. It might have come from tagging brick walls with spray paint when I was 9 and 10 (I unfortunately got caught and was given community service plus an ass whipping to end all ass whippings by my pops). I'm not sure where the "talent" came from but it was there. At the time I was drawing flowers for an assignment. Flowers, bright colors, and the like was something that was common in my life, mainly because my parents are from the Islands. I love flowers and the bright colors. But Darrin, the bully of my grade, really didn't like them or I guess he didn't like me.

Darrin was a big kid. He was probably held back for like 20 years. He had a full beard, corn rows, and always wore the tightest clothing. He was fairly intimidating. But I couldn't show fear. My father always told me I couldn't show fear, I couldn't cry, and I had to face anyone who confronted me.

The conversation went something like this.

Darrin- You little bleepity bleep bleep n-word wannabe blankety bleep blank!

Me- Oh yeah?! Fuck yo- SMACK!!!!

The sum ofa bitch smacked me. Open palm and all. He smacked me! What the hell!

Now, to enlighten all of those about a slap (I do realize I've digressed but I promise it all ties in) I will proceed to explain a little history and a little thing called the ways of the jungle.

A slap is humiliating. It's something associated with women. Women slap. Men hit. If a man slaps you, he is calling you a bitch. Not only is he calling you a bitch, but that burning red hand print across your face is screaming to everyone that you are a huge bitch! If you were in jail you would be Bubba Joe's bitch that he bought for some toilet wine and a pack of smokes. I believe now that this is why back in the 1700s men would slap each other than get in a gun fight. Because, even though they were frilly and slightly gay back then, they were man enough to realize a slap required an answer back. They answered back with guns. On that day, in 7th grade, in my art class, I answered back with a fist.

The fight was quick. I'm not ashamed to admit this. Darrin whipped my ass fast. He was big, strong, quick, and mean. I was smaller, slower, and terrified! As I laid on the ground, Darrin loomed over me, I could taste blood, smell blood, and worst of all I could feel not only the hand print across my cheek but also my eyes was now swelling up rapidly. Fuck. Thats all I could think. One simple word. Fuck.

From left field though, a pudgy, little, white hand came flying and cold cocked my large enemy. In his hand was held brass knuckles. The ultimate leveler of any playing field.

That was the end of my fight with Darrin but the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Eric and I were required to attend a "troubled youth" school after this happened. Because he attacked Darrin with a weapon and because I was involved we both attended the middle school that was part school and part boot camp. But it was here that we grew to become friends.

Eric reason to help me out was simple. He was the only white kid. I was the only Islander. We were both different. He saw someone that could become a friend. So he helped. That was Eric. Selfless. His means weren't always the best but the ends justified whatever happened prior to that.

The years passed, I grew. I became the big kid on the block. Eric stayed small and pudgy but he stayed wild. He kept wearing his du-rag, baggy jeans, and ghetto brand clothing.

I found the reason behind his du-rag.

It happened when we had been frisked by the cops. They took his du-rag off and showed his scarred, bald head. After it happened I asked Eric. The scar came from Brain cancer. He had had brain cancer when he was in the 5th grade. He spent his 6th grade year in chemotherapy and physical therapy. He had surgery who knows how many times just to make sure that the cancer never came back. That was his younger years.

As life went on, Eric would fight cancer two more times. The second time he would beat it. He would come back stronger than ever only to fall three times as hard. I never really learned how to deal with dying from "natural" causes. I can deal with the unnatural causes. Stabbings, shootings, over doses, and the normal everyday shit was something that I didn't flinch at. But doctors, scalpels, chemo, and shitty hospital food reduced the tough guy image into a crying baby pleading with God to let my friend live. My prayers weren't answered.

Those fatal brutal words made me write this verse/
Tears filled my eyes when I gazed upon your hearse/

I got a phone call at around 4 o'clock. It was unexpected. I had seen Eric hours before. He was sick, of course he had brain cancer. But never had it crossed my mind that he wouldn't make it. It never connected in my mind that when he told me it was impossible to operate this time around that it meant he would die, and soon! To me, Eric was invincible. He could have fought Superman and won. What a cruel joke to be played on me. The insecure boy who could handle people getting shot couldn't handle his best friend dying.

I was riding around trying to get in this girls pants. I was 16 at the time. Our now mutual friend D, Darrin from 7th grade, called me on my cell. His normal happy go lucky voice (yeah who would have thought that) was drenched in sorrow. He told me Eric had died. An angel had left our living presence only to go and dwell with God. I stopped the car in mid-traffic and fell out. Literally. Tears poured from my eyes, I cried like a baby. I couldn't believe what happened. Not Eric. He had always been so strong. No my right hand. No the one person I could tell everything to. No, not him God. Why not me! He's to good to die early. I'm bad, take me.

Take me away, from all the pressures of living today and save me I feel so alone/
I don't wanna live, when you see me take my soul and go I wanna come home/

Again, God didn't hear my pleadings.

I'm still here. I'm still alive.

Eric's example to me is something of great worth. I can't entirely explain it all in words. But I hope I can try.

He was a man. In every sense of the word. He had respect for everyone. He never did anything to anyone unless they deserved it. He never spoke bad about a woman, and he never struck a woman. He never complained. Even in his hellish life, with surgery, chemo (three different times), Juvenile incarceration, and having me as a friend I never once heard him complain. I never saw him get depressed. He was dealt a hand of cards, and he played them the best he could.

I'm not ashamed to say that I cried like a little baby for weeks after his death and funeral. I cried on the 14 and I will repeat this again and again until Eric and I embrace at Peter's Gates.

From loosing Eric I have become more conscience about how I treat those I love. His death made me realize how precious life is. His death made me realize that all we have to really look forward to is death. Because even though yesterday was great, today is hard, and tomorrow will be better, the only certain thing in life is that death will come to all of us. Cherish the time you have with your loved ones. Tell them you love them. Tell them that you care for them. Because you don't want that cruel joke to be played on you.

<3 Kail.

You're amazing and I love you. This is real honest stuff, and I read everything you put up. It's amazing, and you have a real talent. Honestly; you should write a book. I'd buy it. And if it didn't sell...
Well I'd buy all of them then...

As many of you know I spent 4 years and a day in a Federal Penitentiary. I went in for a gross case of aggravated assault and battery. Here's the decisions that took me to that place.

Eric, my best friend, died months prior. I was living in a dark cloud of pain, anger, and uncertainty. Its like the DMX song called "The Rain". The words even today ring true inside of my skull. I would suggest everyone at this point find the song on the internet and listen to it. The song itself is very well put together. There is a lot of depth to it. The whole point of the song is that we all are products of our decisions. The rain is the consequences of our decisions. Decisions. It's a bitch.

My life at this time revolved around several things. One was my girl friend. We can call her Suzan. She was and still is a beautiful woman. She was dancer for the high school and competed for a private jazz dancing team. She was skilled. And I can honestly say while I'm sitting here, in the early morning, that I loved her with all of my heart.

Suzan was infamous of having a horrible temper. She was from the same rough neighborhood I grew up and lived in at the time. Her attitude to people that disrespected her was a big fuck you. Unfortunately, most of the boys our age thought they were the toughest gangsters on the planet. They thought all the girls should just give them what they wanted. So it wasn't uncommon for Suzan to swing on these suckers. Than it got serious. I became her significant other.

As I have wrote before I went from a small time corner worker to being a student. I played Rugby for the high school, it was just a club not a team unfortunately, I applied myself to my studies. I was never stupid. I actually worked hard to stay out of the street, stay focused on my education, and get out of my current situation of living where I lived. But at the same time I was always out in the streets with my home boys. They slung crack, heroin, meth, weed, and robbed dudes all damn day. That was their choice. I tried my best to stay above that all. One thing I never ran from was a brawl. If my friends were in a bind that we had to knuckle up with someone, I was there. I was always there.

So here it goes. Fist fight to fist fight. Brawl after brawl. That was how a few years of my life went. I would come home some nights my white t-shirt soaked in blood from the kids I fought and even some of my own. We didn't loose many fights but there were those that we did loose. But that was alright. I could live with loosing. The most important thing was I didn't run. I didn't cry. I took it like a man. I handle business and walked away. No animosity towards those that we fought. Once it was over it was over. Thats how we lived. It was simple.

Than I got together with Suzan. She was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. Instead of standing around with the homeys I would go to her place. We would study, watch TV, babysit her little sister, and just enjoy each others company. We were young. We were in love. When guys on the block disrespected her I was there. I put them in there place. I will admit that not many of the guys in the neighborhood wanted any problems with me. I'm a big guy. I know how to fight. In a one on one fight, chances are you won't walk away looking the same if you get into it with me. It simple physics.

One night I stayed late at school. I had a project due. I can't remember what the project was but Suzan decided to head home. I would meet up with her after. It took me until about 8 at night to finish up. I got a ride home with a kid from school. When I got there Suzan sat in my room crying. A bruise had swelled up under her eye. I can't remember the whole conversation. What I remember is going to my dresser and pulling out my gun. I had kept it from my early days of being a corner worker. It was a small Glock in .40 caliber. The serial numbers had been worn off. The feel of the gun in my hand weighed my soul down. These events still play slow in my mind. Suzan screamed, cried, and pleaded for me to put the gun down and stay inside. I couldn't listen to her. I couldn't let this happen. Not to her. Not to the one I loved. Luckily, reason did win out. I tossed the gun to her and left my home. I knew who had did this to her.

The outside air was heavy and cold. Fall had set in, the trees that lined the sidewalks were changing colors. I wore a black hoodie, tossed the hood up, and shoved my hands in my pockets.

The guy who had beaten her, raped her, and than left her was on the block with three of his friends. They had a reputation around the city as being rough guys. They were known for gun play. Everyone said they would rather shoot than fight. That never registered to me. As I walked up to them all I saw was him. His light tan skin, the white t-shirt he work, the khaki pants, the white shoes, and his gold chain.

I'm not really sure what happened in the fight. Somehow I got the drop on them. What I do remember is grabbing a handful of white and holding it while my right hand beat the face of the one that attacked Suzan. When my hand wouldn't ball up into a fist anymore I switched hands. I literally swung until I couldn't use either of my hands. Thats when the cops showed up. I was kicking him with my boots on. He had balled up and was yelling for me to stop. Blood was smeared on the concrete, his face was swelling up, my arms were drenched in the red liquid, and somewhere in the process I had lost my shirt, hoodie, and tank top. The cops pepper sprayed and hit me with a taser to separate me and the other kid.

I was handcuffed and taken to county holding.

It took a week for the evidence to be piled up against me. The case was cut and dry. The kid pressed full charges. Sitting there in the court room in the orange clothes of a inmate I made my plea bargain. Instead of the 10 year minimum sentence for such a brutal beating, I pleaded down to a 2 year bid. The judge agreed, the prosecution agreed, and I was hauled off in shackles. My mom cried, my dad was disappointed, Suzan wasn't even there. She was to scared to even see the man that had assaulted her.

To anyone who has been in prison there are several moments that it all sinks in. The first is the bus ride. It seemed like an eternity riding up state to where I would like the next 24 months of my life. Except eternity under minded how long the 1 hour bus ride was. My thoughts kept going to all the shit I had heard about prison. Rape, murder, the racism, all of the went through my mind. I made my decision on the bus ride. The first person to cross me would pay. That was it. I wouldn't become a bitch. That wasn't me.

The next significant moment is when you enter the prison for processing. You are sprayed down, checked by a physician to make sure you can be in general population, than checked for contraband. You open your mouth, your gagged, and you get probed. All of this was to make sure no one could sneak contraband in.

The last moment I will discuss is the sound of bars sliding behind you. You enter your 6x9 cell that has a bunk bed, a toilet, a small desk, and a small mirror. That was where you would live. If you were good you could maybe get a shorter sentence. But if your good you will be raped. You will be hurt. You will be killed.

I entered my cell. My celly was a small white kid. No one special I don't remember his name. He spoke to me a few times. Other than that I wasn't there long enough to know him.

While you are in prison you do things to pass the time. You do push ups, sit ups, you learn how to make weapons, and you scheme on how to survive. My first order of business was to make weapons. I had to be strapped. My figured a way out, with the help of another Islander, to make a plastic weapon used to stab. It was crude, but it worked until I could make a razor.

It was month, no one had confronted me. Everyone stayed away because I was apart of the Islander prison gang. I didn't fuck with whites, blacks, mexicans, or asians. I stayed with the Islanders when I was out of my cell.

My first fight was in the lunch line. A guy cut me. I couldn't have that. My lunch tray turned out to be a great weapon. I hit him hard on the back of his head. He bled quickly. Once he hit the ground I started kicking. I was detained and placed in Solitary. That was my first stay.

In prison you are given a points on how dangerous you are. When you enter you start out at 10. Given what you do in prison you either climb above, stay at, or drop below 10. The Molesters usually drop below 10 because they are in protective housing. They get their own rec time, they stay apart from the rest of the animals. Most inmates stay between 20 and 30. When I left prison I had 104 points attached to my name. Thats why I doubled my sentence. I went from 2 years to 4 years.

I was known as a wild young kid from the start. At the drop of a hat I would fight, stab, and try to mutilate anyone. I was known for giving guys a buck 50, thats a cut along someones cheek that takes 150 stitches to close up. Thats what I was known for. Violence. That's why I was put in Solitary for 18 or 19 months. A year an a half in solitary confinement. It was hell.

But at the same time my personal hell was also my personal salvation.

My salvation from the personal hell I was living in was writing. It was simple. When I started I wasn't good at it. I still don't consider myself a good writer but I feel like I've improved. When I started writing I would write raps. Just simple verses that would talk about killing, dope dealing, fighting, fucking, and how much of a gangster I was. It was all shit. I hate remember some of the shit I wrote down. It was laughable at best.

I sold coke, I sold dope, I sold smoke, I banged straps/
I'm in prison I'm in hell I'm stavin and I cannot laugh

When I got out of the SHU I was put in a cell with another Islander. He was a real hard body. He had done all that shit I wrote about in the streets. Gun fights, dealing, everything. He was a real gangster. I remember he welcomed me with open arms and we would stay up all night talking about life. He was a lifer so he would tell me to live my life for him. Enjoy things on the outside for him.

It took months for me to show him what I had wrote. He laughed, gave me shit about it, than sat me down and spoke some truth to me. I remember his face, it was rough. He had a nasty scar running across his forehead from an inmate giving his a Buck-50 when he was in the mess hall. His eyes had a fire in them that scared even his friends. Sio, that's what I knew him as, was a man I respected. When he talked to me about what I was writing he told me this: Write what I lived. Don't act like another man. Don't talk about banging straps or selling dope when I hadn't done it. Sio was protecting me from being fake. He was showing me how to speak the truth in every facet of my life. I loved him for doing this.

From writing rap it slowly transformed into poetry. For some reason writing poetry was easier than writing a rap. I could open up more when I was writing poetry where as when I wrote a rap I had to be the Super Thug everyone feared. Inside the pen to write things they only give you a few sheets of paper and a pencil you would use at a putt-putt/mini golf course. Your hand would cramp up just from writing a few lines. It amazed me how something I loved and helped me hurt so much.

I ended the last chapter(?), section, whatever simply because I doubt that there is more I could have wrote about how I fell in love with writing. It is a very spiritual subject for me so I write about it with a reverence.

So we move along from writing to something that has always been important to me, Respect and Hope (and the audacity of both).

While in prison you hope for many things. You hope that you will make it back to your cell (surprising I know) without getting cut in the rec yard. You hope that when the mail cart rolls down the tier that it will stop by your cell and hand you thousands of letters. You hope that when you go for a parole hearing that they won't see the notes of how violent you were, how you cut inmate so-and-so, and how you spent so many months in Secured Housing.

Than you see it all slip away. Hope leaves. As much as you hope for something to happen, it leaves you eventually. You realize that you will never leave the SHU, you realize that you won't escape every blade in the yard, you realize that there is no point to even want mail, and you realize that the bricks, mortar, and steel of your cell is all you will see for the rest of you life.

Hope....What a bastard....

Respect....

Respect is something I have always clung to. That is something that was never taken away from me. Even in the darkest hours of my life, in the deepest hole of the SHU, even on the most dangerous corner I've always had respect from everyone. Even my enemies will say they respect me. They may hate me, they may want to/try to kill me, but they will always respect me.

When I talk about enemies I'm not talking about someone who hates you. I'm not talking about someone who talks shit. I'm talking about someone that when they see you, their hate is so intense that shit happens. People get hurt. People die. I don't have many enemies. Most of mine are still on the inside. But even my enemies, those people that hate me so much they tried to take my life, respect me.

When I was naked, with nothing, I had respect. No family visits, no commissary, no mail, no freedom, I had respect. I protected my respect with a savagery.

Demanding respect also demands that you give respect. When I came out I demanded from myself that I would respect all people. I would never let race, sexual orientation, size, clothes, whatever determine if I respected a person or not. I would always respect them until there came a time that I could no longer do so.



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I'm not really sure if I will continue to write in this thread. It grows harder and harder for me to dig deeper into my life to find things that I feel confident to write about. I've wrote my soul down in these few posts. I hope you enjoy them and I hope I can write more about my life. Thanks!

<3

*hands you a typewriter*

"Make a book?" XD

Man, you really do have a wonderful set of writing skills; and the way you pair it with your past experiences makes for some wonderful stuff to read. Not wonderful as in Lolli Pop Guild and fairytopia. But as in, it's really captivating. Whenever I read what you write on this thread, I can't stop until I'm at the very end, and I love what you write. Though I have most certainly not been through what you have, a lot of your chronicled experiences remind me of some point in my life. A lot of it reminds me of a period of time that I'm still unwilling to talk about too much, about when I dated a ''thug'' of sorts, who was my longest relationship. That's when I kind of was thrust into the reality of a lot of stuff.

Anyways.
I'm not gonna' rant anymore.

I love your writing Kail.

Always a fan-
~Eternity

Kail, you are an amazing writer. Your chapters are gripping, touching, and beautifully written all at once. You have absolutely no reason for any lack of confidence, because no one in the world could ever laugh at this. It's breath-taking.

Thanks everyone. I appreciate the love and support.


----------------------------------------------



The words "Your Release Date..." hold a special meaning to me. Going from freedom, to fours years in a box (18 months of that spent in SHU), to knowing that there was an end to my hell was a miracle. I was going home!

But let me rewind. It all happened months prior. The Islander I was in a cell with had told me to live my life for him. To experience things he wouldn't be able to experience. He wanted me to get some pussy for him. He wanted me to smoke blunt for him, drink a beer, and watch the sun rise. That last one got me. He wanted me to watch the sun rise.

As our relationship grew from just cell mates to brothers I realized I had everything to loose. I realized the mistake I had made when I came into prison.

My mentality was "Fuck the world! I'm a bad ass. Fuck all of you that mess with me because I'll cut your fucking throat." Spending time with my brother in a 6x9 changed my mentality. I had a chance to be free! Shit! What?! I had a shot at FREEDOM! The word was so foreign to me.

The decision process was a simple one. I would stop being hard. I would stop fighting, I would stop cutting, I would stop doing what I did. I would never loose or give away my respect but I wouldn't go out looking to prove myself anymore. I learned that from a Lifer.

When I left through the same prison gates that I had entered through 4 years prior I had a form of shock. I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I wore shoes with no shoe laces (the guards took them for fear of them being used as a weapon), jeans that were old as hell and smelled funny, and a tank top. Nothing else. My parents met me on the outside. I hugged my mom who I hadn't seen in 4 years, shook my dads hand, and looked for Suzan. The woman I had given up 4 years for. The woman who I had willingly gone to prison for. Surprise! She wasn't there. The shock of being outside quickly spiraled into anger. I could only think of the betrayal. Why wasn't she there!? Why wasn't Suzan there to greet me, hug me, kiss me, and promise to do all the things I had dreamed about for the past 4 years. It's safe to say this was a huge WTF moment.

When I came back home the first person I called was my P.O. He was a cool dude. Serious but very cool. I set up my first meeting with him, hung the black cordless phone up, and dialed Suzan's number. Nothing. No answer. My anger spiraled to depression. I had survived countless fights, attempted stabbings, and even been shot at by the guards. I had lived in Solitary and survived. I had lived in a zoo full of rabid apes for four years to come home to what? P.O. meetings, my aged parents, the fucked up neighborhood I lived in, and not one single girl in sight. Lovely. Prison had to be better than this right? At least in prison I knew I wouldn't be getting anything close to female ass. On the outside it was just torture.

A few things had changed for me since I had been on the inside. I was more willingly to scrap with a man. If he looked at me funny, said something stupid, or did something stupid BOOM! I would be all over his punk ass with my fists flying. I also started to pack a gun again. Because of what I had done with the mexican I was paranoid that retaliation would happen. I viewed my pistol like a condom "Better to have one and not need it than need one and not have it."

A week or so passed and my old friends heard I was home. They came by, promised they would take care of me. If I decided to go back to the corners (even though I hadn't touched a baggy or vial in over 10 years) they would help me. If I needed money to get anything, they had my back. It was a bunch of hollow promises.

Many inmates become institutionalized in just a few simple months. I hate to say this but I missed prison when I was first home. I missed the routine, I missed the fact that I didn't have to decide anything, and I missed the fact that my friends were on the inside.

I don't want to say I was institutionalized but I definitely felt shell shock. I was scared all the time. My hands would involuntarily shake. I couldn't be alone for more than a few hours and I couldn't (and still can't) stand the dark. I had shell shock. Or Post Traumatic Stress from my time in the SHU and in general population.

Dealing with all of these emotions was hard enough on its own. Than it happened. One day, in the matter of seconds, two people were taken away from me....

Here is another song I wrote. It's a fairly recent one. The chorus was taken from an old school 50 Cent song called Ghetto Qu'ran. The idea of this song is that I'm on my death bed, looking back through my life. Seeing the shit I've done etc. etc.

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Barely raised by my dysfunctional fam
Here I stand as a dysfunctional man
Quick-tempered, short-fused, and pissed at God
Demons pullin at my soul 'til it's ripped apart
Secret's out momma that fire I started it
Fuck the fireman logic of the closet by the wire shit
What's positive about a father that bust nuts then wussed up
And a momma that don't show her son enough love
Shit, that's why I run from my first son
And force these chickenhead bitches to get abortions
I'm married to game, my mistress is fame
My girls pack the toasts, they know I ain't gon' change
Go insane in a world evil as ours
I done shot at houses, people and cars
The deeper the scars, the worst is the history
God you ain't gotta forgive me, just don't forget me, you hear me?


[Chorus]
Lord forgive me, for I've sinned
Over and over again just to stay, on top
I recall memories, filled, with sin
Over and over again.. and again


And most importantly I'm tryin to support my seeds
Can't seem to get away from them courtin fees
Embroidery, on my hood across my heart disorderly
Breakin in houses of people who ain't got more than me
Accordingly, I move in error
Gotta face the fact though I can't fool this mirror
Neglected my daughter and tryin to blame on how I was brought up
like I'm a product of this environment, why ain't I shot up?
Got up today like "Why you let me breathe again?"
And with each breath I feel death is creepin in
Thinkin sinners are winners and I'ma finish last
My pen and pad record my life as each minute pass
Passin minutes, I shook sin and shook drugs
I did right by you but still I took slugz
Then caught me in adultery, fought me
for not knowin through the dark streets you walked me, talked to me


[Chorus]


It's the bliss that's a rush so rush my wrists in the cuffs
It's like a fight for yo' attention and love
Speakin of love, give me a hint from above
If he not you know I wanna be sent when I'm done
Kid outta wedlock so my lady's frontin
I love Sam, cause he gave me somethin
A positive anything is better than a negative nothin
I was on the edge of death ready to jump in
It's hard when you can't find love anywhere
And just because the reverend listen, don't mean he care
Pops on crack with a sufferin past
I dream in black and white, the world color me bad
Other than sad, painful and stress
Life is good with the webs that, tangle with death
Control the border, control the school
I have sinned amongst men and my soul is yours, yours

As I sit here currently, this will be close to the 20th time (each time I write this I cry, get pissed, and change something) I've sat down to "write this part of my life" down so you can all view it, judge it, laugh at how pathetic I am, blah blah blah. What ever. I write to lift the burden off my shoulders and if you don't like this, than please don't read what I've written.

I approach this "part" with a sense of reverence because I will be writing about friends that I have lost.


I wrote in my first post in the blog about the time when I was rummaging through my room and found a beautifully cruel picture of my close group of friends. The picture was taken about a month prior to when my friend Eric died of brain cancer. I have already wrote about how Eric was an amazing individual. He was a leader, he loved the people that surrounded him, and he would have died for those people. At this time I question why God takes the best of people from this Earth and leaves wretched men like me who drown out their self loathing in "thug music", liquor, one night stands, and the monthly visit to the P.O. I continue to ask this question and I have yet to receive an answer from the All Mighty.

I've lost a lot of friends. I know in my prior posts I said I would write about two friends that I lost. I can't write that. It's to difficult for me to dive into those emotions that I've locked up and pray will never come to the surface again.

Death is something we can't ever begin to understand. I've been to a lot of funerals. Close to 15 some odd in my 23 years of life on this planet. Every time I stand in the line to pay respects to the person who passed, give my love to the family, and cry my tears, I realize nothing can prepare you for the sense of never being in control. If you think about it every day we face death. You never know when you will die. You can't prepare for it. Simple.

And so, I close this part with these few thoughts.

Never take your freedoms for granted. Coming from a position of having no freedom I regret the times I didn't take advantage of those freedoms. I also pray that each of us can show the proper respect and love to the people who are close to us in this life. You never know how precious those people are until you loose them.

-Kail

I wish I could say that I can keep writing about my life. Unfortunately there are certain areas I must keep private. "Critical Thinking" has ran it's course. I must say that having a place to write down my thoughts and emotions has been therapeutic. It's helped me realize some of the demons I have and it has also helped me confront those demons.

As a closing thought I have to thank all of you who have been respectful (or holding back your disrespectful thoughts) when you commented on the things I have wrote. I appreciate that. I always have a little apprehension when I share parts of my life that I'm not proud of. Thank you.

-- Kail

The Dark. I wish I had a clever title for this one but I don't. Sorry?

The reason why I'm writing this is partly because I'm laying in my bed, in the dark, and I'm trying to fall asleep. During this time, my mind travels through the large filing cabinet of memories. Some of those memories are brought to the fore front and cherished. Others are beaten down and shoved back into the darkest part of my soul. The memory I want to share is one of those memories I never want to relive. Why am I writing it? Well, I hope that through writing I can eventually conquer that fear.

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Solitary. That's a feeling attached to a scary word for me. Solitary confinement, Secured Housing, all of those words and phrases send a shiver of fear down my back when I hear them. I know why. Through my choices as a teen I spent a part of my life in that place where I didn't have much human contact. I was allowed to shower, if I was good, twice a week and I was allowed to exercise outside of my cage for a couple hours a week. I rarely saw day light for close to 18 months. I didn't have much physical contact with other prisoners and I was conditioned to fear the dark. That's pathetic, I know. When you are in prison, when they say "Lights out!" in the cells, they mean it. And it's not like you have a switch you can go flip on for yourself. Nah, when they say "Lights out!" you know that cell will be dark until the next morning.

While inside Solitary an individual goes through an unbelievable roller coaster of emotions. Some people can make it out fine. Others break down and eventually crack under the invisible weight of loneliness. And than there's the other group. This final group pretends everything is alright. They pretend nothing has happened and everything will be just fine. They put that tough face on and they act like nothing in the world could ever penetrate their iron like mask. But on the inside, they cry and wail like a scared child. I was a part of this last group.

I hate the dark for several reasons. I don't know whats there. I mean, I know whats in my room but I don't KNOW whats there. The state psychologist attributes this paranoia to the various traumatic experiences I had while living my 18 months inside the hole. There were times while I was on the inside that I would stay up for what seemed like days on end, I'm not sure of the time because I had no clock and no window to the outside, listening to grown men cry, pray, and plead out loud for God to save them. This was another time when God wouldn't hear the pleadings of his children. At that time in my life I never knew how a "father" could be so cold to his children.

A part of me wants to believe I'm not longer that child on the inside, curled up in a ball, shivering, and pleading for God to take me away. Unfortunately, I can't look myself in the mirror and believe that so why would I write that here? Even now, while I'm writing I hear those cries. The sound of my fellow inmates torment that mixed so well with mine. Of course now they're all jumbled up and nothing is distinctive. I can hear moans, tears, and sniffles but I can't hear words. Even now, a year or so after my time I'm still haunted by that 18 months. Even now, I still face the demons I faced while I was alone.

I hope one day that I will be able to face The Dark. I hope one day I'll be able to look at myself in the mirror and not feel ashamed that I'm a coward. I can only hope that one day I can be free. Yeah, freedom...

I've been writing a lot lately. Certain situations has led me to reflect on the many deaths that have altered my personality in drastic ways. So here we are. My letters to Grief and letters of grief to those who have left me permanently.

Grief Letters

Eric

Eric... To my best friend, my little big brother, the man who I watched leave his own personal hell. I was so helpless Eric. I'm sorry. I remember the exact day it happened. Me and a few of the guys were there. Your hospital bed was decorated with flowers, tears, and the sounds of shaking. I remember that look on your face. I still feel haunted by that last picture we took with you, all of us in front of you house, you looked so frail. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I've never felt so vulnerable. I lived in the harshest environments and I've never felt so scared. For years I protected you from everything. No one messed with you. If they did I was there. But now... with your cancer... Inoperable brain cancer... I can't fight that. I can't rip that sickness out of you. I can't even trade you places. I would have rather been in that bed. You were to young to die. You were to good to leave us. You had a family who loved you, you had people who relied on you, and you had so much to live for. I prayed. I'm not a very religious man. You know that. But I prayed while you laid there. I prayed for you to stand up and walk. I prayed for me to take your place. I yelled at the top of my lungs to a deaf god. I wondered later if there was such a thing as a god and if there was, is he a cruel 8 year old with a magnifying glass arbitrarily ripping people we need from our embrace.

That night when you left, I cried. I screamed. I shook. I had nightmares of you leaving. The next morning I thought that day was all a bad dream. I looked at my cell, I tried to call you, but there was no answer. I cried. I screamed. I shook. I drank. I smoked. I kept looking at you name in my cell phone. The green and black image is still tattooed into my memory. After I was done looking at your cell phone, I stared down the barrel of my pistol. With a round in the chamber, finger on the trigger, I was ready to leave. I wanted to die. I couldn't live without you. My partner. My brother.

A year or so after I ended up in Comstock. I saw Uncle Teff, he looked like shit. I went from Main Line to Secured Housing. I spent 23 hours alone. I spent 23 hours a day thinking of you. If you had been there that night I lost my temper and went looking for blood, I might not have been in that situation. I cried. I screamed. I beat the brick walls with my knuckles trying to tear them down. I lost that fight. I was cut a few times Eric. The pain felt good. The razors ripping through my skin alleviated the more permanent pain I felt. It was almost like the physical pain made me forget about the anguish I felt deep in my soul. I was cut more after I figured that it was my only escape from the constant torment.

I left Comstock, went back home. For once in my life, I hated living where we grew up. Everything had changed. I didn't have my little brother to help me through that ugly transition. Instead of a loving friend I got a bastard P.O., a whole new set of issues with certain individuals, and the reason I went up north had left me. I cried. I drank. I smoked. I did whatever I could to leave my own personal hell for a few moments.

I'm sorry Eric. I'm not the man you expected me to be. I'm a fiend for women, I don't trust a damn person, I drink to much, I smoke to much, and I still got that crazy temper that landed me in prison. I'm sorry Eric. I've let you down. I wish I could switch places. The world doesn't need a man like but they need a saint like you. At times like these, I lay here. I think of the gun that I had stared at. I wish I would have pulled the trigger but I'm glad I didn't.

This is a poem/song I wrote. The whole idea behind it was how my conversation with God would be when I reach the Gates of heaven. Go is talking in the " "

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Look...
I woke up without a heart beat
But, I remember we was just in the car deep
Was at a light, and got approached by a car thief
He pulled out but didn't ask for no car keys
A loud noise without a voice but i'm tryna scream out...shit is not fair
I can't tell you where i'm at or how I got here
Surrounded by all white, maybe it's just cloudy
Escorted by two men who knew everything about me
Both of 'em so strong, kept sayin' hold on
Feel like my soul's gone...naked no clothes on
I know this can't be my fate, I scream wait
As they drop me in front of a gate
They left no trace...I can see my every breath
Like a cold day, stood in front a man with no face
He said to me "please dont make this any harder"
Who the fuck is you? "my child i'm your Father"
I only got one dad "is that a fact to you?"
"He left you when you was young, I brought him back to you"
"You're real close to heaven, few get to step in"
"Now tell me what you've done to deserve to be let in"
Look i'm far from a Christian, not big on religion
But ain't done too much wrong my entire time livin'
Never killed, never tried to...though I been lied to
Was once suicidal, never read the Bible
I always been a caretaker, tried to nurse people
At times it back fired...hurt people, hurt people
Plus I never used your name in vain
But you should know everything I'm bein' asked explained
"I know you stole from your mother's purse"
You can't count that, that was way back when
"It's still a sin" ...but I was ten
"You robbed peoples' stores" Yeah, and YOU made me see jail
"But I also seen you lay your hands on a female"
"Sold drugs to parents, none of that was needed"
"Abandoned your child, on every girl you cheated"
"Done wrong to people that only want the best for you"
"Anytime you thought you were alone, I was next to you"
When it comes to baby moms...God you gave me the worst one
"But that was your second child son...you shouldn't have killed the first one"
I ain't have a job...ain't have a pot to piss in
"Look I gave you a gift, and you made the wrong decision"
"Held on to resentments, even in doin' business"
"I lead by example, I teach forgiveness"
"Your entry...cannot be guaranteed"
"Not when you live with anger, envy, greed"
"Pride, sloth, lust even glutony"
"Everything you shouldn't if you would've joined my covenant"
Look i'm only human, I ain't perfect "That I understand"
"When I take you out a jam, you don't even think to worship"
"And when you do...you never talk about what...
"...You can do for me, it's what I can do for you"
"I blessed you with health, family and wealth"
"But all the blessings you've received...you still always want help"
Yeah there's been times in my life I needed help to make money
But why everything I love, you manage to take from me
Yet you stand there and question a man that tries hard
And finds a way when you keep dealin' him fucked up cards
You make mistakes like me, far as I can see
I think it's a mockery whenever rich niggas win the lottery
Gave us Bush twice, God I hate to be rude
But you let skinny children starve, give obese men food
The nerve of you tellin' me I dont deserve to stay here
When you gave us drugs and guns, you put AIDs here
Take a look at chu, your actions are cold hearted
The harsh shit is you bring babies in the world retarded
I know most my actions put me in a cell
Now how you mad at me when you put me in the Hell?
"See my child, you need gratitude, maybe just a sample"
"I never give a person anything he can't handle"
"Don't tell me 'bout everything you had to go through"
"There's reasons for my actions even if I never showed you"
"Kept tryin' wit chu, all you did was hurt me"
"Still gave you chances to prove that you was worthy"
"And so I sat wit chu on a train"
"I asked you for change, you kept callin' me names"
"Prolly didn't notice, I was a store clerk"
"You put the gun to me, get money for more work"
"My child, I know you have it in you to indeed stop"
"This is not your final calling, just a brief stop"
"Hope you heed my words and understand"
"So when I see you back, you should be a better man"
"Look at life different, the next time we see each other"
"There'll be no need to talk, whenever we meet each other"

A few nights ago I met some old friends. After a round of drinks, story being shared, and catching up on what has been happening in the recent years, we parted ways. The dinner was to commemorate the possible last time we would ever see each other. The parting was bitter sweet. As we left the restaurant, we hugged, made hollow promises of keeping in touch, and swearing on everything that we would do "this" again. The only thing that could register in my mind was how fake everything seemed.

At one point in my life, these friends had been very close. These friends had been the people I had cried with, laughed with, and I would have thought we would have stayed as close as family through everything. But over the years we had drifted apart. My choices had taken me away for a time being. Their choices had either sent them into the realm of higher education or onto the street corners to chase pipe dreams and easy money. So why was it so fake when we sat and talked about our past? Thought about the good times, joked about the bad times, and always brought up that time when "so-and-so did such-and-such" just for a good laugh.

As I thought about the night I realized a few things in life. Change will always happen. Even though change can be good sometimes, change can also be bad. Friends come and go. The good times will fade away and hopefully be replaced by better times. The old childhood friendships will sometimes stay forever but most of the time they will disappear into a dinner that is fake with forced smiles, hollow promises, and painful hugs.

The result of all of this has made me inspect my own life. I realize now, sitting on the edge of my 24th birthday, that I have lived a life time trapped in my own self loathing. I've never felt comfortable with the man that I am. I still feel like I'm that scarred teenage boy who stood on the Tiers and cried himself to sleep his first night in SHU. I realize that by my own choices I have very little to show for myself. I have a jacket full of court papers, a cargo plane full of emotional baggage, and absolutely nothing to look forward to in life.

Although, there might be a glimmer of hope. At possibly one of the darkest, most lonely times in my life, I can see the light. Maybe? I'm moving out next week to go to school. I've literally worked 2 years to reach this point. I've stayed out of trouble, I've never missed an appointment or court appearance, and I've saved every damn penny I've had so that I can move out and experience college life "away from home". This might sound weird to all of you but while most of you were living the normal teenage life I was trapped in a concrete jungle full of monsters. The idea that I can actually go away to school and meet new people and maybe actually have some sort of social life outside of my work associates is so foreign to me. I know, you can say that I'm pitiful. I think that of myself all the time.

And here I stand. Another chapter of my life coming to a close. Another chapter beginning. What can I hope for? What can I expect? I would hope that I can leave the past behind me. I would hope that my actions of yesterday will be put aside and the actions of today and the intentions for tomorrow can be judged correctly. I would pray that I can find my place in this new world. I wish all of the anger and paranoia and self hatred will disappear by some miracle so that I can be a normal guy, so I can do normal things, and so I can eventually understand what "the best years of life" truly means.

But the one thing I want the most? What one thing do I crave and pray for and hope for the most? The one thing I completely desire above all else.... Is to belong. To have a place where I can feel like I belong. To have true friends. Ones that don't give out forced smiles, hollow promises, and painful hugs. Ones that I can have around me for the rest of my life.

So heres to old and new friends, the beautifully hated word called change, and a glimpse of hope that maybe, for once in my life, I can belong.

Well, just wanted to let you know I started reading. I dunno what to say really, as anything I would say are things you already know. I can give yoy the same crap most people come up with when they read stuff like this, like: life's unfair, when given lemons you've got to make lemonade and blahblahblah. Thing is, in my eyes anyway, no matter what people tell you, no matter how many times people tell you there are others on this planet that have it way worse and are way more worse off than you are right now; it doesn't matter. This is what's happening to you and what happened to you. So yes, it IS your life. All you can do is share and hope that the words reach the right person with the right effect.

Well, guess I said more than I planned to. Hope it makes a bit sense.