My images were distorted,
a played out fiction book of torn pages and darken memories.
A scripture that I will never forget,
the walls shaking so loud that the paint chips crumbles and
the walls split with a thousand shackled arms and black socket eyes blinking.
Oh but don't worry because that's not the worst to come.
Twisted tongues as long as legs that can run,
with demons who speak mandarin with #no subtitles;
let me be your decipher.
Yes it wasn't a secret,
those hallucinate breaking through my screen without a purpose;
crawling up the walls for me and I ask myself, why are they laughing?
That crack pipe must be whispering,
because I can hear its whip looping gravity pulling
vibration of broken hallways with shattered glass, saying smoke me.
Yet I scream at night while sweating out my emotions,
as I stroke my fingertips across the
windows of running rain water;
dripping from the Big Dipper itself.
Laying on cardboard boxes with pillowcased newspapers
and sainted tear drops leaving their imprints of sorrow;
this is where I sleep at night.
With unnoticed shadows of the lost forgotten things
and those backyard gardens attached with
locked shacks filled with tools never meant to be used.
This is what I did with my potential, a harbor docked boat tied to an anchor.
I was broken before I was even born whole,
a dirty little secret only meant to last one night between the sheets.
Eleven years old: hustling cigarette boxes from my drunk battered father,
with his Pink Floyd t-shirts and his redneck country scruff beard.
Thirteen: those late nights pressed between the headboard rest
and nightstand covered with Bud-light hollow bottles and coca cola tops.
From the grunting sounds to the smells of soggy smeared cigars and ashtrays,
I could only think of how I would expel myself from this place.
Those wonder-less nights of what if mom walked back through the door
and I would wait until dark in front of our beautiful fireplace.
Well those were only foolish imaginations,
while my reality consists of weekly beatings
and molested innocents of blood sainted sheets.
Fifteen: those long hot showers washing mommy's scars away
and sniffing my dad's stash of cocaine straighten lines that told stories.
Fuck all those dreams I used to talk about.
I'm like a swinging door,
you only notice me when your passing through me;
but I keep swinging once you leave me.
I'm like a broken skipping recorded that never stops playing,
those crime sacking sofas and televisions I used to steal for a fixing
and those beatings I'm use to getting.
A junkie with no reasoning,
a deeply covered wound fill with salt and tie-die tattoos of misspelled words.
Those non-refundable journeys of butt naked searching, they call it PCP.
Twenty-Three: Why can't I escape from those past voices of my history,
as if being a monster wasn't enough?
Evicted by my innocents and yet I'm not afraid of my punishment.
I say fuck wisdom,
because I was born without an invitation to saying hello;
so fuck waiting until those people's power
decide to extinguish me of my interior body suit of flesh.
Eighteen: flashbacks of lying on metal wired beds and an 8 by 10 concrete hell.
Nineteen: Broken itchy surfaces with blacken hollowed holes tips
and un-dental floss unwanted yellow teeth.
One tap to my citrus box of tangled plugs cutting off my circulation,
with air bubbled poison tubes of deception.
Long beard tubes I used as pieces,
stuffing its grooves of white sparkly crushed bits of crystals
and blue feathered angels.
Inhaling large amounts cubicles,
I begin to shift my position as angle my next hit of acceleration.
Twenty-Seven: Lying in a dug hole, 4 by 8 in length;
I realized this will soon be my home.
I blamed everyone for my mistakes,
only now to see that I can still make a change.
A broken hearted boy trapped in a misunderstood man,
if I only knew what to do.
I started from the very bottom,
A bagging homeless man outside the sixth-six-floor Marshall Hotel.
Thirty-Two: sixth-six floors later,
I now own the Marshall Hotel later renamed after my broken hearted dream,