i sit with a gentleman named jack
he picks my thoughts
a solid wall breaks
crumbles
and i spill thoughts.
a few days ago
the radio spoke
i listened
to a similar story.
young men in chicago face death
pride fear bullet wounds
lost friends found in the cemetery.
i was lucky
scraped the surface of the life
avoided being pulled under
suffocated.
someone spoke
said we lack a ritual for boys to become men.
this is true.
i flashed back to a younger version
and remembered for a time
i felt like i missed out
felt that it was normal to be shot
a rite of passage.
to this day
it creeps up
spins its twisted web.
