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{when i speak of life} adrian s. potter The hustler posted in the alley selling dope has a tattooed tear that swears life will continue to be what it has always been: a playground for people trying to get away with whatever they can behind God’s back. But when I speak of life I mention inspiration and confusion from one mouth. I am a split personality spitting out bullets and bible verses, discovering how bloodshed can beget beauty, confusing intentions with actions, simultaneously chasing a dream while living a nightmare. When I speak of life I identify the foundation of humanity’s complex existence, the combined fury of a millennium of doubt, the compulsion to replicate evil and good depending on context, the truth of a chillingly devised system designed so one hand can wash blood from another without consequence or guilt. I continue to walk these streets of filth, trash, and abandoned aspirations. I witness people whose spirits have gone missing long before their bodies are placed in caskets. I shoplift hopes and dumpster dive for dreams and recognize that survival lurks within our shadows. This is the vicious world that we attempt to endure, whether drunk or sober, simple-minded or level-headed, marching forward with rifles aimed at our backs and a million pounds of pressure on our shoulders, waiting for yesterday’s sorrows to die so that today’s blessings can blossom and tomorrow’s sacrifices can somehow save our souls. |
