Cycle

His fear had its own cycle of depression, he was locked in trying to make a better life, not knowing how and not seeing a way out. There is a groove etched in pain and someone poured acid in it. His thoughts were lucid and his mind was on automatic, static and void. With his conquest set on two gods, money and sex. He was now down to base instincts and the human mind can only take what is there and form dignity. He would have been better off in the field pulling crops and dreaming of freedom, death in a revolt but he has reached the last mile of slavery. He was his own machine against his release, he had a life sentence but he still wouldn’t sign the pardon.

His vision was clear and he could see the hole and whole in any drug deal, he knew how to get it to the people by any means necessary. He could use any positive word to serve his means. He was an urban philosopher dipped in cocaine and dragged across the concrete. He owns that block, defends it with a life that wasn’t his and dreaming of what could have been but only for brief moments and all the time lying to himself.

You should have seen talking to the television shows and his shows represented what he saw about his life. He saw scenarios where he would have taken a different approach and stroked steel to break that broken wheel, and of course it’s African. White are highly revered not because of their craft but their ability to spin their story. He saw two sides of the table, one where he told his story and the other one where another story was told. He knew his story would not be believed. Smoke, burning in the wind just as he burns in the wind. And they were fine with that as long as he didn’t leave those city streets, that was his territory and his life was bound to it literally. If he left his post, he would lose his respect. He was losing his grip even when trying to educate the young cats and the dangers of this and that. Their eyes rolling and his respect up in smoke. They only want to know one thing, if he has that work for them.

They were shooting for the top and one of the bullets would be meant for him. This is the age of empires and sometimes its 14 can carrying a chrome plated .380. The prescription is no remorse in that case. Even if he got caught, he lived by principles that were never our own but we learned them early and in some cases as soon as we learned them, we expired. Class is out, life continues and the next generation is only too eager to fill your spot.

I have never seen a black man not function because of the death of another black man. Even if they wear that t-shirt with that picture on the front they are still rolling blunts and dipped in death. They are already lost, uneducated and unappreciated by America. When the highest black official can be pulled over by a new rookie cop and lose his respect on sight, what chance did he have. He was depressed. Pushed down and out of sorts, well versed in crime and torts. Lying from one meal to the next and only thinking in those timeframes. You live by the second because any longer would spell demise because one second is all it takes to steal his empire and seal his fate. He would have no regrets because compared to his friends and family around him, they seemed like they were fighting the inevitable. They were doing a nine to five and money was being stolen from them every single day and with their permission in the form of legislation that was never their own. And even if the numbers made the case for a depressed race, the time would still tick on.

The force was strong with this one. He could stop a jacker in his tracks and then rewind on his family and push that vengeance back. He wanted no reprisals, no surprising ammunition. His mission was simple, it was kill or be killed or as he shortened it – kill.

He protected the concrete with bullets and the blood of Africans.

He didn’t even want a successor because he would not be able to trust him. When it happened, it happened. That was the succession plan. So fear locked in depression and he has mastered life, or the life he knew or the life he was taught or the thought he was taught. He can you do away with the anger and the notion to kill and sit in the presence of someone he would call associate and know at a moment’s notice he would have to end him. That is depression, that is fear. Not letting anyone get close to you, not feeling and not connecting on a level where you place trust in someone’s hands and heart. Not able to reach to someone and have them feel your pain when being completely taken in. They understand you but they also understand your life. They shared it with you, at least they tried. Your kill order has no rhyme or reason, sometimes it rhymes and other times it just has no reason.

You are a radical, a man on the edge of destruction and you are brainwashed, soaked in master-slave mentally because as the saying goes, slaves don’t want to be free, they want to be masters. You want to practice your fathers art form. You want to storm into his study and show him how proudly and efficiently you have killed Africans. You want him to look at you and smile at your excellent work and look at your with a smile that only your father can give you.

And you reflect back because you never had a father, he was just as broken as you and may not have lived to see you grow. So a cycle of fear laced with depression and we only teach our lesson to others when we die. So death to you.