He has fought me since
day one. He wouldn’t

get off of the couch
because he was eating
an apple.

He was the first one
to openly scream and
argue with me in front of

20 of his peers.

He is a creative genius.
An imagination that could
change the world.

He will push and push
and push and yell and
when he is done he turns

into the sweetest, most
beautiful young man. He
comes up with entire short

story books of characters
that he draws and will
smile shyly as he explains

what they all are.

Yesterday he sat in
front of me, arms folded
over his chest. Glaring at the

“I’m walking out

“Are you? To where?”

I stare at him.

“To the streets.
The fuckin streets.”

“With your

Ralph Lauren
polo and brand new
nikes?” I smirk.

“I’d rather be on
the streets.” He
raises his voice.

“The streets are
right there for you
waiting. They are never

the same but
they never
change. Your shirt

and shoes won’t
last a day but you
might live, maybe

and if you do
you’ll be right back
where you

started, best case

scenario at least.

I will sure
miss you, your art
and your stories.”

He glares at the wall
before complaining that
it’s chicken for dinner


My job
teaches me
joy, hope and

heartbreak on a
consistent daily

The part that gets me
the most is when talented
and valuable young men

think that the disease
of reckless abandon, or


is so cool that
the street cred

of being nothing to

is a

life worth
dieing for.

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