"What happens in neighborhoods where the self-esteem has been overshadowed by the decay and the children no longer play the way they used too, where young boys begin to follow figures that had no father figures a place where lives have been reduced to writing dead names on a brothers wall a lot of dead shames on my brothers wall because a couple of my childhood friends died over some dumb stuff or maybe it’s that slum stuff or that we shall overcome stuff where I’m from stuff just don’t happen the way you might think it does I’m from a place where they tore down the projects and took away neighborhood sports where little black boys put on jerseys and shorts dream big about stardom on fine hardwood courts but then wake up to the harsh reality of the unfinished stripped inner city floors where life splinters cold winters and sheltered by crack houses instead of recreational center that they claim to not have the paper to keep open for operation the deconstruction of the black family have been in perpetuation ever since Willie Lynch set his theory in motion de-characterization was his sole promotion therefore if you take the basket out his face and put the coke in its place he’ll still score what’s a young boy to do when he doesn’t want to do wrong but there is a lock on the right door when he has the heart of a soldier aggression of a prize fighter but no one has taught him what to fight for you see most of our families are fatherless and quite poor so we miss out on meals as well as kisses and hugs you’ve got the audacity to cut the funding for the facilities that keep us off the streets but then ask us why we sell drugs but imagine what if gangsters put down their dice and guns picked up their daughter’s and sons and put a little love right there where the hate is imagine if hustlers learned how to be accountants before being taught what the difference between wet and dry weight is imagine if these little hood kids had the same education as these rich white kids had way out in the sticks if dealers got to learn chemistry for real before learning how to whip seven and a half out of six imagine if she was taught to love herself demand and demonstrate respect when she walked through the door imagine if she turned on the TV and saw herself in the primetime hour instead of the four o’clock video whore, imagine" and I imagine until my imagination becomes nightmares waking me up at night as bullet screams turn into scares not knowing how to deal with the pain so I cover it up with the façade of the happiest kid running around meanwhile my hearts getting cut up without making a sound, trouble is what I’ve become with my dad begging and wishing that he never had a son so I grant that one two more will you that’s why I use the other to wish for death too afraid to do it myself so I’m praying a stray one catches me so I can write my name on the bullet the abuse has to stop your words cut like barb wire fences, each bruise tells a story the alcohol is a poison that hereditarily leaks from generation to generation without even taking a sip but yet I still imagine with an imagination that kisses similes so deep metaphors get jealous so I wish someday my grandma can finish teaching me what love really means so the next time I say it Facebook has nothing to do with it and in my imagination I imagine that the man who produced this off spring will put down the bottle and pick up his son so his son could say papa can you possibly teach me the technique of managing my hormones instead of ignoring this pain in my stomach as I moan and groan while I’m wishing that I’m grown so I don’t have to wait until that split second as I’m finally alone my heart starts beating again so hard I can hear pounding in my ears so happy I could cheer when the DVD starts to spin and after the eyes roll back to the moment when it all started the addiction the pain the same scenario all over again,  I get so sick to my stomach until I start throwing up come into my bedroom with a black light to see all the secrets revealed on the TV, walls, and pencils that’s why I write until fingers turn numb and bleed that’s the point when people think my imagination is a disease and I quickly imagine that that my nightmares are fantasies a quickly awakened paradise where everyone learns to accept the truth for what it is and LeBron isn’t the only person  you witness to the imagination of a little kid that represents so much he becomes a symbol himself, paradise a place where you can roam, play, live and never die no more imagining these ghetto dreams because ghettos aren’t images anymore just locked into a vault in the back of your mind passed the stars no more imagining that dead relative that you were so close to whether it’s a cousin shot outside of his little brothers funeral or the grandmother that was super glued down to the foundation that kept her legacy living because those images are living every day and every second. A resurrection of the righteous and unrighteous and I fantasize until the fascination turns back to nightmares because the worlds reality is so far from that and as I open my eyes I see the imagination is dead despite Einstein’s theory and I find myself standing before a mirror staring into the eyes of an invisible man staring into my pupils until my pupils become pupils and I can teach myself how to live a better life and as that happens my imagery leads me to a door that falls with the acronym that used to stand for Larry                                                                                                                                                                                       The loser everybody loves but he can’t stand 

The arrogance that’s got him thinking his don’t stink            

The really slow kid that has to sit in the front or the deficiency of his attention will kick in              

The ridiculousness of the ignorance that comes out of his mouth to get the attention that he never had       

Yelling at girls so that insecure spot is over shadowed by the echoes of his words 

Hating his family until he runs away         

Eating so much ice cream that cold feeling he gets from it is non-existent        

The attention that he has to get from everyone by doing weird things so the big nose isn’t the first thing people think about when his name comes up            

The rehabilitation center his father should still be in        

The dreams of finally making it out the hood             

Desirable food that fascinates him because he’s starving at night            

 The want to be OG that won’t hear his sons holler due to his undying infatuation with a dollar           

The Nerd VS the Negro he faces every day when he comes to school     

The evilness he’s done to hurt the one he loves the most unintentionally                   

The love he never realized his family gave him   

The loneliness he faces every night when the thoughts come back               and the thoughts comeback Papa, papa come home, papa come home cause I miss you papa come home cause I realized I wanted to be just like you but I’ve forgotten who you are until I’m reminded by the screw driver in her back, the busted windows, black eyes, the alcohol, the bricks, the blood gushing out on the pavement and all the blue and red flashing like we are giants fans, the cursing, drama, and frying pans and after these years I cry for that man that should have been there when I saw his dreads fly up after the gun shot, the blood splatter on the ground looking for a friend because no one is around for the first, second, and third suspensions, the expulsion hearing, the book bag that wasn’t mine that got me a drug record, my first fight, my first poem and the first time I said where’s my papa but then I look up and I see Jehovah the only one that can stop the corruption in these mid-town D.C skyscrapers that have the audacity to put daycares across the street from rapers who landscape the grass on the white side of the fence until the blacks come across and smoke it, no one knows who I am or where I’m from so listen up. I’m from that same place that represents three sixes where people who smoke do it for more reasons than medicinal purposes walk outside and you’ll see a fight everyday I’m from the place where coke and drug dealers shoot over birds now that you know where I’m from I just want to be Heard!