Its not like him, no matter what he always called me. This is our mom thinking of us while we was running the streets. When we didn’t come home they’ll call the courts and precincts hoping we was locked up with our friends, if we wasn’t there they knew we was somewhere in some hospital probably shot up again. They would always come to our rescue, “why are they harassing you”? Or “boy who shot you”? like they going to bust their guns for their sons . Follow me as I show you the things moms had to endure while their son roamed the world trying to explore different things other than project doors ,floors and walls.
We wandered astray at such a young age rebellious to the days that came tomorrow because yesterday my father was taken away. when he left so many things left with him, Love, affection, wealth and wisdom, guidance and protection. I just tried to be all he was to my mom. I gave her the love and affection she needed, it was the wealth and wisdom I didn’t have to offer, I just had to help my mother, she tried to give me guidance but with defiance I ignored her. Protection was about thirty other rebellious sons carrying guns growing up in the slums, each and everyone one of us had similar problems, we were blood brothers, all our parents new each other, all our homes were broken, they knew their kids was suffering, they couldn’t do nothing because they suffered as we did. Young lion hearts with the minds of cubs roamed the concrete Serengeti thinking we was prepared, but we weren’t ready for a life that was so deadly. Not too long after establishing an illegal establishment, we dealt with the first dying already, after him followed many. Our moms saw us cry then at the same time they saw the fire of desire in our eyes to become more organized. All the warnings signs through mourning times went over looked by poverty. Living inferior there was no retreat nor surrender, we lived like gladiators in a death arena. Mothers cried “it’s all my fault” the reason why their kids were running wild in new York, we would tell them it’s not their fault at all, we would sacrifice our life so our mothers wouldn’t be poor. through that mythological process of selling drugs to progress we put our mothers through so much stress.
For felonies they saw us behind bars,
When we was shot they saw us in pain fed through I v’s,
When we was murdered they got a visit from homicide police,
To my mines, the rest and the deads mothers…. We are sorry
Infinite the poet 2012
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