‘Poor Street boy.’ That is my name.
A title I earned from my satirical society that preaches water and drinks wine.
One that rebukes abortion yet despises teenage pregnancies, a society of people who smile
with a dying heart, a society that made me vagabond and gave me a name they considered to be good.
Name shattered as my dreams, a title broken as my hard heart that painfully still bleeds
for a normal drug free-life, a life that would see me hold a book and pen for change,
but it’s just a wish.
And now I live by my long gone memories of the good old days,
when life was life,
when I was five,
when I’d feel alive
when papa was there to see me survive
when mama’s only wish was seeing her only son thrive in life.
Those days are gone, and so are they.
Such a reminisce.
Our shallow- pocket background unfortunately
would never give us the chance to know life,
as much as life is all we ever asked for, happiness to them was defined by figures.
Papa took to the drug peddle and an introduction to his slow death and planned meeting
with the angels began upon addiction,
he became a junkie I no longer could recognize.
Sweet mama wouldn’t cry on the outside but deep down her soul was lost and her heart wilted in pain of something she couldn’t control.
And on that fateful day, mama perished of heart attack upon the
sad news of papa’s public shooting during his ‘daily hustle‘
It was on this day that my life took a turn. Water became thicker than blood
and worse more, pin-strike pain in the heart seeing friends walk away at my time of need
so I took to the streets to fend for myself. It never got any better.
Left alone in my tenth year of life
I had to survive.
I took to the daily sniff
I took to the bottle and smoke became my cloud,
I had the need to forget and so the needle stuck by my skin
life got better as I became papa’s replacement in his business
and started living the dream.
But I was living a lie.
life by the blade, bullet spots on my thighs,
bruised conscience and blood in my hands.
anger of a tiger, instincts of a viper all in one dead soul that seeks redemptiom
with a hazy lit shade of hope
but still tightly held by the influence of one thing
And now in pain and vain I cry for my dry veins
my dead dreams on this death rag, just a wish it was a bed
just a wish, I saw some light
Just a wish, I fixed it up for a simple pure life
And it’s my wish to do it right again,
Just a wish for a second chance.
©Malcolmx Dewn Sunguti