I write . . .

I write . . .

 

I write . .  to inform of faith and prayer

The none believers to believers . . . that they do exist

Like oxygen we breathe . . . all they require is belief

God eyes are never close nor do his ears

With him there are no limits . . . well that’s what I believe

 

I write . . .

 

I write . . . of growth

I was raised in the streets with old thieves and now thieves

Old killers and now killers

Grand hustlers and now hustlers

 

I write . . .

 

I write . . . . of memories

Days go by I will never see again . . . now just memories

Friends that die I will never see again . . . now just memories

Our laughs, parties, handshakes, balling in the streets . . . now just memories

 

I write . . .

 

I write . . . . . of the piercing the heart and mind of mine

My ears suffered from hearing

The “you’re no good”, The “I regret you”

The “you’re like the ones in the street”

Hurts to hear and see it come of the ones you love . . . family

Hurts to look in the bleachers and I’m the only “Direny” in the stadium

Every sport, game and year… I am still the only “Direny” in the stadium

Hurts to have no support from the ones you love . . . family

 

I write . . .

 

I write . . . . . . of support

I was blessed of many things . . . friends

The hurting pain of no support threw me down and was breaking my spirit in

Hoping to be surprised, only to see loneliness and its stupid grin

Loneliness cried when he heard cheers for number “11” . . . they are friends

Loneliness cried when support was in the stands for number “11” . . . they are friends

Loneliness killed itself when mentors in the stands screaming for “11”

They were there when injuries occur and my deliveries of tackles

They were there when I left the game of a bad sprain

He was there when the bone in my hand broke like a twig

They were there when I had a good game

Well . . . they were there, not family

I write . . .

 

I Write . . . . . . . to inspire

The many growing up struggling from lack of love and support

The hood lovers, drug dealers and all hustlers

The ones with no mothers, or fathers

Stay strong, for I am strong

We’re no different . . . we bleed and eat the same

We can achieve and heal from any pain

I was raised in the hood, but I am here

I was broke and hurt, but I am here

 

I write . . .

I write . . .

I write . . . . . . . . I write “My LIFE”