Concrete Jungle
By: The Silverback Gorilla
Normally I'd welcome the sight of the sun, but something felt oddly wrong with this particular day. Then like a ton of bricks, my head started pounding. I noticed the light streak of blood on my shirt, but I was not hurt. I found a nearby Starbucks on 125th and 7th Ave., there I'd conduct a more in inspection still a bit dazed from the night before. The cold water from the sink brought me back to reality. I was a Black middle age homeless person using the bathroom at a local coffee shop.
The smell of "crack" residue rose from my clothes. The lack of deodorant and a bath told a far greater story. How could a man dislike himself to the point of neglect? The thought of (freshening-up) quickly faded with the stale stench of toe-jam odor that my socks gave. To hell with that, I need me a wake-up. Damn right I need a fix, and standing here talking to you will not get it for me either. Which makes my next order of business either Rite-Aid or Duane Reade, the job of a petty ass Shoplifter would be my order of business for the time being.
Now on the flip-side of things; how could the son of the a Bishop, living Bro. turn out to be a weak non-caring drug addict that's being torn apart by something so small you can't even (see-it).
So light you can't even pick it up.
A simple decision could change his life, the right decision could take him places he couldn't possibly imagine he'd be, things he never thought he'd have. Will he decide to be all he can be (a-man) or will he continue to stay in the grips of despair & what if?
Note: until a man has shamed himself only then will her change.
To thine own self be true.
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