Thoughts too myself

CATEGORY

life

The stinch of plastic wrapped mats and industrial cleaner fills my nose as i lay drowning in the deepest silence i’ve ever experienced,the ability to be able to hear myself think traps me to a enduring state of reverence in which my very surroundings traps my thoughts to the void of nothingness,...drifting off into the abyss, the color on the walls are meant to have a psychological effect on my mood and as i observe and inspect every crevence i am chained to the grey and darker hues that decor the walls of this hell ,the cadences of keys jingling near and distinct every so often...chained to the vessels who are employed to bound me to this state,its seems that in this sphere of life my interaction and observation has been limited to the interior depths of my conscious ,me and these optical impressions that illustrate my dark reality ....a reflective square sits perched above a stainless steel camode along with a sink ,unable to produce enough water to wash the grime and dirt that has weighed down my shabby garments as they barley hang onto my beaten frame ....at times .i stare into the square cringing at the sight of who or what i’ve become....and at times unable to recognize the years,months,days,hours,minutes,seconds that have passed and how i’ve lost sight of who my eyes now behold ....staring into The windows of my soul .....my face wearing the pain of chains and mental whips just as my ancestors had done many years ago, I lose my painful focus to the sounds that seep between the spaces of bars on the door of my physical tomb...sounds of the voices of sons,fathers,nephews,brothers,men,black men ..who fill these constructed walls as they did the slave ships navigating the middle passage,many will die ,many will live a life with invisible chains still clinching their necks withholding any level of freedom physical ,mental, spiritual,....i listen as these soul filled instruments compose a orchestra whose endless symphony bears pain,..pain so deep its etched into these very doors in the form of hand prints and names given by these individuals struggling to hold on to their identity, gang influences,..other nicknames created to create fear but are only created out of it...these doors periodically slide open giving the sense of one in an elevator only you have reached a level of new depths ...as you take in The visual stimulus the tension bleeds unto you and possess such an Infectious touch that even the bearer of keys notices as they canvas this jungle as they do often throughout the day..its hard to fathom that this is my life ...these thoughts fill my head as i immolate the manliest disposition i can ,its like a stand off ...where the guns are piercing intimidating looks and everyone is grenades with missing pins,i daily observe an explosion ,most have a gang involved and some over mere respect...i fight with myself not to but as time passes i begin to expect and over look the war zone around me its as if i am a solider in the war of life in a battle of my decisions far away from all i know unable to understand my purpose...or if i would make it out alive, i become used to the violence ..even at times having brushes with it myself getting lost in the moments where i gotta be someone to survive forgetting that i need to survive so i can be someone.....my connection to life hangs on the wall about a few paces from where i stand ...it provides the Best escape from this hell so one could assume that in a environment like this it is one of the most dangerous aspects ....waiting in line to steal a few moments of joy ...hoping someone behind you does not wanna see that taken from you ...i clutched the phone tight unable to foresee that the very people i spoke to would soon only exist as distant fragments hidden in my subconscious scattered from the trauma i daily face ..but for now i hold on stealing laughs and speaking words that i think i believe only because they translate my deep level of loneliness..its sad but with time that becomes more and more the feeling that is the back drop to this image smeared on this canvas seemingly sewn out of steel ...the artist being ones who could never fathom the struggle of survival that could push one with underdeveloped maturity and values to make a mistake ...a mistake that would cost many of the most crucial Years in ones life ultimately crippling the very possibility of that maturity and needed growth ever taking place...or maybe that's not the point maybe this is.....maybe the fact that i have to sit and hear the pain In the voice of my grandmother as she tries to hug me through the phone but is unable to know if she will live to see me free again,..maybe the point is for me to give up on life becoming just like these shells composed of human flesh that occupy this space ,maybe i should become lost in those quiet moments and never come back ,maybe i should relieve myself of this burden spilling my liquid life force in my ready made tomb...painting red the preconstructed box that society says is planned for me do to the color of my skin,as i strive to balance this turmoil of thought plaguing my mind i feel like falling to my knees letting out a vocal representation of the pain and agony that comes with this fate ..a scream from the bowels of my soul ,loud enough so that if there may be some form of a creator or divine being i will express my distaste with the path he has made for me to travel,..but at this point in time its just me ,and those dark spaces i travel to in mind ,deafened by the loud silence flooding my ears, nose filled with the scent of this plastic wrapped nylon laced mat ,staring at these walls as they are motionless surrounding me and chaining me to the very manifestation of a mistake,one that has taken so much of my life and left me ....lonely