Chronicles of the lost and unfortunate

This piece was written in memory of poor lost souls, I wrote it so we never forget what it’s like to suffer. If it offends you, then read it again to comprehend a part of life that many of us are not accustomed to. Peace be with those who are not with us here on Earth anymore. I pray that God humbles us, and gives us all the strength to sacrifice our gifts to make the world better.

The truth is that we have no homeland. We roam through the night searching for food in dumpsters. We’ve been beaten up by thugs and we’re on the corner begging for food. 

The truth is that we have no homeland, we don’t know the rules, we’re unhealthy and toxic to those reaching for the finer things in life.

We’re criminally unstable, invidious of haunted jail cells fighting others who wear an orange outfit because we’re haunted by the visions that killed our relatives slowly. All of the customs of our identity have been reused against us for our own good and honestly, we don’t know who we are. The art that we paint on abandoned structures is never priceless until found centuries later.

We fled our native country in search for a dream but found ourselves in chains worse than we were before we fled. We’re a symbol of God’s suffering flesh on a cross by those battling with their own curse and our prayers are conflicted with human ambitions. Where is our place in history? We’re lost in a world because we don’t know. We played the lottery only to find out that our dollars still cannot buy us happiness. Sick, only to find out that we can’t afford the cure.

Yes, we’re the lost and unfortunate, we played the game and lost. We broke the law and got life. We’re dying on a cross dreaming of saving our own creation from their sins. We’re the nobodies building the pyramids, we’re slaves crucified by our own people for trying to get to freedom.

We’re on a plane trying to figure out what the people are saying while our brothers and sisters hold our hand as we prepare for another challenge. Every day we die slowly, suffering from malnutrition and we have no friends. The dirt on our clothes is a symbol that we have tried to crawl out of the filthy pits of hell. The chains that bind us together, the tears that we cry, and the left over food that we eat, are all engrained into the truths that we hold dear. 

The truth is that we have no homeland and we didn’t make the rules. We wander from place to place, enlisting in kingdoms that we don’t belong to and the knowledge that we partake of is not our own. As the world spins on without us, we die a thousand times, conquering barbed wires, using drugs sold by drug dealers to numb the pain, and sold as sex slaves while those fighting for us are hosed and beaten lifeless dreaming of heroism. This is the side of the fence where there is no greener grass, where the savior is a mystery novel that we may not have read but we must try to relate to, and any hope is beaten out of us. We die a thousand times and our stories are set on fire in the libraries conquered by dictators. Our passions are left at altars riddled with memories of nooses and other objects sprinkled in the foundations of a lost history. 

The truth is that we have no homeland and everyday that we awake we find ourselves alone in a psychological struggle, asleep and ignorant of what really drives the world. Inkling thoughts of a sinner drowning in their own guilt because they cannot save us. We’re lost, on the streets wondering why our families  are fading away from the woes of drug infested communities while we drown in rivers trying to flee to the promised land. Even as a soldier fighting for freedom, we’re haunted by memories of a littered past filled with symbols, death camps , and dreams of heaven while escaping bomb littered streets of black soot and polluted air raining acid on our parade. Demented betrayal of lovers trying to come home as children are separated in a brutal divorce. Ailing images of our favorite team losing every game and as we take our last breath, executed in the hot blistering sun, we reach for a piece of the world that we’ve never known, a place to call home.

Chronicles of the lost and unfortunate.

The Wild Elephants

 “Hey, Trisha, let’s go poke some elephants,” Kenny said.

“That would be cool, I let the donkeys run wild for sometime, now let’s go see what response we get out of the elephants,” Trisha replied.

Shortly after leaving the donkeys, Trisha and Kenny went to go poke the Elephants through their zoo fence.

“Spice, do you feel that,” Fred the elephant asked.

“Yeah, it feels like someone is poking us,” Spice replied.

“We elephants have been taking this crap for too long. Let Donald loose,” Fred said.

Trisha and Kenny noticed that the elephants were acting very strangely after being poked. They soon noticed a loud noise as though one of the elephants were blowing a trumpet. Hearing people screaming in the distance, Donald the wildest elephant had gotten loose. Trampling on a crowd as they screamed, all of the other elephants joined in.

Tossing patrons of the zoo around with their trunks Trisha and Kenny ran for cover.

“Oh God, what have we done? We’ve unleashed the wrath of the Wild Elephants,” Trisha said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Spice noticed Trisha and Kenny. 

“There are the humans that were poking us,” Spice said.

Donald went running with fury as more elephants followed.

As the Donkeys took cover, the wild Elephants attacked them also.

Once the smashing and punishment was over a calm wind began to blow.

Donald sat down and went to sleep as the people and the donkeys tended their wounds.

“They won’t be messing with us ever again,” Frank said to Fred.

“Sometimes you just have to give them what they asked for. We were not bothering anyone, they asked for that beat down. I’m going to finish my peanuts,” Fred concluded.

Things got pretty quiet after that and the elephants went on minding their own business never to be poked again.

The End.

The other personality

There I was again, looking in the mirror.

Full of myself, I’d done it again.

I made a promise that I did not keep, I lost another friend and I did not weep.

I lost another opportunity that I probably needed.

Who dare be so selfish and conceited?

So what is this side of people that I do not see?

If walls could talk what would they make of me?

If  they’re in love, is it true? I saw her alone, I guess they’re through. 

A small whisper, a second chance…

One smile and another glance.

Deeply moved, I found myself alone, once again searching for a home.

I had a bunch, that fell out of the safe, now I’m out on the street searching for a space.

A person who I never was, stereotyped with a patch over one eye, called me a name when actually I’m shy.

But, I’m a loving man, that has some other personalities too, I pray for them to scatter, but they shift then poof, I’m a different person around Sue and Bob, but once I see Deshawn I’m flashing the finger.

Singing at karaoke bars warning my friends to stay away from swingers. 

Why do people conceal their true selves? I think it’s so we can learn a lesson or two, a part of us falling and a part of us queued.

I say, be yourself, because in the end, the person you hurt the most may turnout to be your only friend.

We’re wearing a mask to hide what we truly feel, I guess that’s why to a creator we all must kneel.

We’re all human and in the end we must pay, I hope this message teaches you to appreciate the potter molding the clay.

To the no Conscience Mind

This piece is a school of thought; therefore, the person whom I fear the most is myself. I’m afraid of who I can become, and the people whom I’ve looked up to have let me down. I was not born like this, but the people have turned me into a beast. Therefore, I wrote this piece so the innocent victims will be spared. Young child, don’t destroy your future over one bad day, I wrote this piece trying to figure out why you chose to shoot.

Trapped inside of a dream the other night, it was as though someone had literally been guiding my thoughts to write something very important down. In the field of psychology there are symbols, in business there are brands. Moving on, each sign, brand, or symbol plays over and over again inside of the conscience mind. The question now is, what happens when someone snaps? A lot of us may not know what we’re consuming, but to us it’s all good. A lot of us may beg for what we want, but when we get it we have to pay a dear price. Think of this, a soldier has to be mentally and physically prepared for combat. He or she must eliminate the concept of fear and neglect pain and suffering because at times there is literally no where to run and the probability of death increases in a war zone. Racially, current actions have made scholars wonder about how people actually think. Headed into black history month, in America, one might ponder on these truths. There is something taking place in the human mind that has completely wiped away how and what some individuals actually feel. When digging deeper, we all have something cynical going on with our thoughts, these are the voices that we fight with everyday to interact with the world around us. While watching children suffer at the hands of war or watching the wealthy still not be wealthy enough and the poor still not be poor enough, one may sit down to think. What we can learn about this piece is that in the darkness of space what we cannot see in the darkness may have been hiding right in front of us the entire time. To dig deeper into the complex understanding of a mind with no conscience is to lose all fear of consequences. To be developed into a mind that has not been opened to comprehend the many levels of deeper thought at times can be dangerous because the world is filled with opportunists. While observing these levels of understanding there is terminology, feelings, and a comprehension that some people never took the time to learn. In all actuality, a mind with no conscience may see no solution to their outcome, thus, leaving them with no choice but to break the rules.

My friend, this kind of thinking is dangerous because at the top of the ladder those below may be considered pawns and, sadly, they too are on the edge. To conclude this brief evaluation of thought we must comprehend why people choose violence rather than a peaceful solution. To see a man rise for his people while the world kneels is a critical theme that we all must comprehend because in all reality a hero is tested the most when he has everything to lose and a life to save. The reality that we gain is that a mind with no conscience kills the voice telling him or her not to do it. They zone out the better side of the world and their motive is just like that of the artist, to paint a picture of the world through their eyes and they take hold of the ending with no reason or second thoughts. 

The no Conscience Mind makes or changes the rules with their actions. The scariest part of this story happens at the climax when someone turns thoughts into actions. A mind with no conscience may be programmed to break the rules, knowingly and unknowingly, because he or she, just like the artist, must prove a point. To conclude, I devoted my time to write this piece to be anyone’s voice.

Please, don’t ruin your life, there’s a better world, and we’re all a part of it, we all have the power to make the world and the people around us better. Please, put down the gun.

To the no Conscience Mind.

I had a dream called Los Angeles

I was born in the ghettos of America, but that’s not what this piece is about because if you look up Los Angeles it will say it’s a safe diverse place, and where I live, I learned a lot and actually survived so let us join hands and read.

In my younger adult years I had a nightmare that a city was burning and the people were fleeing to safety. I quickly got up to tell my mother.

She looked at me and said, “Brian, maybe God is trying to tell you something. Give it time.”

I’ve never been to L.A., but as a child, I admit that I did play for the little Raiders and me and my street cousins as a family would rock to Tupac, D—th Row, and NWA was pretty big at the time and we were all victims of street violence praying for a dream to rise out of the harsh ghetto, but I say again, that is not what this piece is about. After the dream I saw a man at a popular grocery store, I never met him before, but he looked me in the eyes and said “Never go to L.A.,” young and dumb, his words echoed in my mind. 

“Why would he say that?” I thought. 

I’m assuming that he must have known something that I didn’t. Now an adult, I can’t escape my passion for a part of America where as a child would seem close to home. I can’t escape the reality of a people searching for peace in their lives, peace in their communities, and peace in their homes. Little children with dreams of flying like angels. So I say go, learn and help as much as you can. They say the world is burning, but I say the world is teaching us something about ourselves, I do know that if my dream was showing me Los Angeles, then God must have a plan. I believe his plan is to bring us together. I say this because there are prayers in many parts of the world that need to be answered. Brethren, there is beauty in the hearts of places that we all have never been but dream of, and that beauty is in the people finding away to make something out of nothing. I’ve never been to Los Angeles, but I’ve heard about it and their street warriors, just like the warriors on the East Coast have little humble hearted children searching for a dream to believe in. In the words of the dreamers and lyrical genius that have passed on, “To live and ——-in L.A. it’s the place to be.
And the angels go 

You’ve got to be there to know it where everybody wanna see or be.
To live and—- in L.A.” If I got the words wrong, forgive me, I’m sure you get the picture. In closing, I pray that the city of Angels and the state of California rise from the ashes like a phoenix while the angels of God spread their wings around California and bring hope with a spirit of holy vibes in the city founded by Felipe in 1781. I hope that like every tragedy on earth that it brings us closer to God and most of all brings us all together. I think that’s what the dream meant. A town burning to bring people together while seeking the knowledge to rebuild. Peace. Written by a dreamer spreading hope for a better tomorrow and a better world. Always in memory of those fighting for a better tomorrow, tipped over with a pen and a pad searching for a way to the promised land.

I had a dream called Los Angeles.

Work Harder not Smarter

Climb the mountain til you fall.

Run until you pass out.

Shovel the snow with your bare hands.

Swim until you collapse underwater.

Do everything yourself and bite the hand that tries to feed you.

Toss and turn on the bare floor.

Walk up a 90 degree angle.

Read the encyclopedia from cover to cover.

Pick cotton in the scorching heat.

Keep spiting on a forest fire until it goes out.

Lay shingles with a bare hammer.

Chew raw steak.

Chop down trees with a dull blade.

Grab your mate and pump until you run out of sperm.

Scream in the face of slackers and make them drink your sweat.

Push the body to the max and I promise you that when your soul leaves your flesh and your blood stops flowing that you won’t feel a thing.

Work Harder not Smarter

A Man’s Curse

Ambitious dreams of owning the world only to find no one to help you tend the fields and fight the animals.

Breaking a woman’s heart in search of your deepest desires only to find out that you still love her in the end.

Killing another man over a commodity only to look in the eyes of his tormented children while receiving the death penalty. Some people lack forgiveness and mercy is not their concern.

Spending your entire life working for your children only to be disrespected for leaving their mother.

Paying child support only to find out that the mother has been training the children to hate you.

Conquering the world only to realize that once everything is conquered there’s nothing left.

Writing a million books only to realize that in the end nothing matters, but the precious things you told the children. If you wrote about killing, they will kill.

Taking every moment for granted only to find out that karma is a curse that you put upon yourself.

Saying things that you don’t mean only to find out that what you mean has no value.

Fascinated with prostitutes because you failed so many times at love and deep inside you’re broken and you’re second man cannot be controlled. You fight with him only to realize that even if you had love he’s a beast that torments every man in a world filled with many different kinds of women, he can also get you killed if let loose in another man’s cave with ill intent.

Being the smartest person alive only to find frustration in a problem that you didn’t solve.

Being alone because you’re misunderstood.

There are so many things to mention, but the biggest curse of all is to lose your life without repentance or a second chance in a world that hates you.

Living a lie only to face the truth in the end, a truth that you have to fight on your own.

Fighting, killing, deceiving, and destroying the world’s righteous only to face God when you die. 

No man lives on earth forever, sadly, or gladly, we all have to face the maker.

I wrote 1 million books.

When I first used a tool to write, I scribbled something on a piece of paper. At that moment, I became hooked on the idea of putting my thoughts on display. I literally came out of my mother’s womb with the passion to write. While sticking a fork in a socket, I wrote the instructions warning other kids not to do it. It hurts. Realizing that I had a mind that never stopped thinking, I got bullied in English class for wearing a fancy orchestra shirt. Catching on to my talent the English teacher put me in honors English classes but my somewhat dreams of writing a high school masterpiece got slashed when I got transferred to another school. Heavy into church, I wrote about everything, I even painted pictures of the fancy temples that I spent my entire childhood visiting. In Sunday school, every teacher wanted me in their class because I seemed to have the gift to stir up some great conversations about theology. I found out that I was different when I got in my first relationship because I would always end up tormented by the fact that girls were very hard to understand. In my downtime, I wrote about it. I wrote about everything. When I was happy, I wrote. When I was sad, I wrote. Broken hearted, with nothing to eat, and even in disarray, I, for some odd reason just couldn’t stop writing. I think I scared a girl off that I had a crush on in high school because I was just so creative. I just had a thing for fashion trends, dancing, and using my artistic talents. I literally invented my prom outfit. Sadly, the paint didn’t dry in time on my cain, but I made it work. Her mother was an English teacher; she loved me, but I think her daughter hated me. I was willing to do anything to have her mother teach me good grammar, but in my quest, I’m sure I was made fun of. It was amazing how I always found myself in odd situations as a child growing into an adult. Somehow, I ended up publishing my first manuscript fresh out of high school. I considered myself a writer willing to write about everything, but since I was raised in the church, I wrote about Christianity. I gave up on the idea of being published by a major publisher because they were too busy trying to make money so I spent all of my money shelf-publishing manuscripts. While everyone else spent their money on the things that they so much desired, there I was publishing my thoughts. My grandmother loved my preaching, I had the gift, but I don’t think a lot of people understood how a child prodigy could tell grown men what to do at the time. Sadly, I shied away from that dream once I started reading more. After a terrible injury in the military, sadly, my mind went blank, but I somehow got better by reading the Bible. My advice to anyone gifted as a child is that when you face off against a psychologist, it’s best to not be creative. Just be quiet. I’m smiling at the thought because the moment they pulled out those black and white blot boards that’s the moment the medication came out because I saw everything differently. It was weird because my entire youth life was spent creating things and writing, but when the gift disappeared it was like some angelic force just wanted to see what a strange little human like me would do. Trapped inside of my body for 2-5 years with no creativity was torture. I begged God for my gifts back. I did everything, I prayed, went to classes, and I even would go into hospital chapels and fight with God to give me my gift back. I’m sure whatever force was on the other side got a kick out of me screaming and conjuring up the holy ghost in a small chapel room by himself while sick people were roaming around the hospital in need of a miracle. I think I fought so hard one day that lightning struck outside. They had to call the nuns and priest, people were literally falling to their knees hoping for God’s presence in their life while I screamed inside of a little small chapel room head banging to gospel hits. An entire cloud surrounded the hospital, ironically, I got my gift back, but, sadly, the hospital shutdown soon after. Each night I would fall to sleep on the floor by the computer at home waiting for a thought to write down, then one night, my gift to write just came back. Just like that, I was back at it, writing one million books. I even opened up my own publishing and production business.

I would say, “The End,” but I’m still writing. My message to anyone reading this is that even if you don’t believe in anything, I’m living proof that God keeps his promises. I’m still writing. ✍️ 

I wrote 1 million books. I’m swimming in a digital lake with paper and ink everywhere.