Deeds of My Father

“I bet you got it twisted, you don't know who to trust.”

Instead of bidding, I’m programming with an early release. Up at 5 am working the yard, 6:30 chow, 7:15 - 2:30 pm reading and learning, 3 pm yard, 4 chow, 6 group, and 7 rec and rest.


The day goes by so fast, and meeting with my counselor every day got your “boy” tired.


My counselor still got a n-trippin about Tupac. The twisted lyrics of being a ghetto gangster and later a ghetto savior got a n- wondering about “who to trust.”


Hell, you know where I’m from “...Bitch, I'm from Zoo York... I'm a just teach...some shit, no semester.”


They keep sayin' we be wild,” but got us locked up in a cage with books and shit to remind us that niggers ain't shit.


So, the teaching starts early from birth about the “haters.” Haters come at you in all types and forms, black, white, male, female, young, old, teachers, counselors, priests, shit your own family.


For example, On a visit, my 3rd baby momma straight jacket with no patches. Straight from the depth of hell, she fires she fell in love with a hitter from the town and moving on, grrt baow. Bitch posted-up, cocked-back, and fired.


Yo, but I’m a “man” with pride, reminding “these devils be sorry for the day they finally [free] me [because] Niggers like me move around with a vengeance.”


Pride is a man’s identity, what he stands and will die for. Nothing is taught but ingrained.


It's the deeds of my father, which is a lifetime deb. Born black, born poor and fucked-up. It’s a debt he or I cannot pay today, tomorrow, or in this lifetime.


Tupac spits, “say they ready for the funk, but I don't think they are knowing.” We be wildlin from birth, from our mother's womb to the streets. A cage can not hold us, not even the chains of the streets. The demons and goblins keep us lurking and scratching, and the chains keep us locked together. Inseparable until they put “us” 6ft under.


Now, I'm here with my father on another wake-up bidding a lifetime of deeds, damn!

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