Okay, first let me figure out somethings.
A genius is suppose to be someone unique, in some pretty normal or odd circumstances.
That may just be my interpretation.
I woke up and realized that sometimes a normal situation can be just someone's interpretation of normal.
So in reality what may seem normal to me may not be normal to you.
Forgive some of my wording but I'm just typing to give you an idea of a "ghetto" interpretation.
The definition changes because the word has a harsh meaning but if you're reading this then I'm sure it got your attention.
I guess I'll use myself; being raised in some rather unusual circumstances, I may see things that I can relate to that other people cannot.
I'll try my best to explain the situation.
I woke up on the street where I used to live when I was a kid.
Don't ask me how I ended up in my old room, but I did.
I decided to come back.
Running from reality, I asked my dad to stay at the house where I spent the majority of my youth.
My intentions were to take my retirement money and help him get things back in order.
Don't ask me why, but he kept the old place; that could explain why nothing worked the way it used to.
There was a rat about the size of my two fist hanging around, so I killed it, or him.
I think it was trying to be my friend, I don't know, it kept popping up in some odd situations.
Realizing that there was a dead rat in the house being consumed by ants, the word "proper" popped in my head.
Proper is a term that could mean something different to those who don't know what it means, especially when you see artist or volunteers spray painting ideas on other people's property.
To the doctor, none of what I'm seeing or experiencing is proper because a rat can spread disease and people shouldn't be painting other people's property.
To the scholar, that's not normal.
The reason why I say this is because to the painter, it may seem proper or normal.
If only my nose were unclogged, I might know what the smell is that's making me light headed.
I can only imagine what plant the people across the street are hiding.
Kids can find some amazing toys in this neighborhood, she seems so happy jumping on that dirty mattress on the curb.
The water man must be painting the curb to mark his territory or it could be that someone just didn't pay the bill.
A teenager on the roof with a tarp and a wooden ladder laying on the spouting, it must be about to rain.
A firing range must be on the other street because someone let off a few rounds last night.
I wonder where all of the people went that used to live in this neighborhood, it used to be so filled with life.
For some odd reason as a child the sun seemed to shine so bright in this neck of the woods.
I guess it was because I saw things from a different angle or was just too young to see things clearly.
Now the houses that once stood are all torn down.
The people don't seem happy at all, there's a big argument going on down the block.
I've just come to accept that by me coming back here, I'll never be taken seriously again, but I'm fine with that.
I've always considered myself mentally challenged for always willing to give others a helping hand,
Or maybe I just see things in people that they don't see in themselves.
The selection of music seems to be displayed in the oddest fashion because all I hear is bass and for some odd reason maybe just a few houses seem organized.
I guess the people who bettered themselves left, never to return again.
I guess the girl who got beat up on the corner some years back, cursed this place.
Looking out of the window, I remembered how this place used to look.
I remember flashes of the big dude and his gang waiting for me to come out of the house so they could finish me off.
I remembered telling my mom to tell them to go away because I had no more fight left in me, I could barely see out of my right eye.
I have a positive outlook on life though.
That maybe why I'm one of the few who came back to try and save this place.
I could give up at any time now.
I figured if I spent all I had and came back, others would get the point, that maybe why they fixed the pot holes in the street or it may just be because someone complained.
Realizing the lack of hope, I looked around at the dirty walls and remembered the day I left for the Navy, only to be injured trying to fight Captain Hook.
Like Peter Pan in Never Never Land, I came back for the lost boys, only to find that they all grew up and found a new home.
I missed the memo that some lost their life defending their territory when I left.
And some struck gold, never to return to the ghetto again.