Drowning in your own pity. Playing hop scotch with no numbers to add or subtract. You could be the BIG meat but instead "yous a" rasher. We use to be Boyz but now were Men. I saw you break bread with the dead, I grew up with you, I went to class with you so I know you're well read. Why did you laugh when I posted Angela and Miles Davis in my locker. Fourteen years have turned you from a solid to Black Vodka. I saw your Mama the other day and her smile was like a collage of broken mirrors. She was thinking about you when she told me, "Keep up the good work son" I remember the streets we use to run, I remember the weed, my first shot gun! I remember the girls and the cut parties, I remember you kelp your distance when I said I wanted a spirit body. I still talk to Pam from Jersey, your son is twelve now. He had to grow up. We have to work, play and pray with hopes that our negative past won't stay. You had too much fun, so instead of growing with life it's life that you throw up. I'm still here for you, not perfect or without faults. I know you're angry, but you can learn to love yourself again if you respect the blood from your own heart.