My life consisted of pure rage before I was old enough to remember how it began. Born and raised in the Northwest or Ohio I could easily use “struggle” as the area description and be on point. They say love is the best thing in the world, whoever “they” are obviously didn’t live my life. I was the product of simple city poor white trash and it took me too long to figure out that road was my choice to follow. Every time I tried to escape the fate, she drew me back.Love? Well, it can drive a man to ruin his life. I met her 15 years into my days, and she spun me like a top, round and round. My mother raised a wise man, but damn if I didn’t fall into the rabbit hole every time I took a step.
I had never felt love, weak or care about someone, let alone have it returned. When she said jump, I didn’t even ask how high, I just did it until I couldn’t move. My feet scar’d for life. That’s my life now, Life. It takes on a whole new grim depth when you know I got it at 20 years old. 6 ½ years later, it feels like my life ain’t mine, I don’t even recognize this sober independent man I see in the mirror. I finally know this, I fucked up.
God knows I don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Prison raised me. Struggle created me. The young and hopeless, where’s the glory in that? My freedom is my religion; one day, some way, I’ll go home, right?