Sleeping on Project benches, scared and wondering if this cat who woke me up is going to rob me. Sob, woe is me, I'm homeless and thirty three-no thirty four. Today is my birthday mama, but I know that you know this already, 'cause you're steady perched on your cloud in Heaven. I need to believe this, our struggles so seamless-ly unfolds. I'm writing my story as a poem that has not been told, or recited, borrowed from , or bited. And, I so know that's not a word, but my situation absolutely deserves something else. I fancy myself a poet who for a great many years didn't know it. I'm sitting here on this project bench, tired and hungry, waiting for the dawn of a new day to say to me: You made it through last night, you're a warrior and your plight will not go unrecognized by the power which governs the Universe. I spit a verse to soothe me because I'm scared and stressed out; almost certain but there's still doubt as to whether I'll actually succeed and become the man I'm supposed to be. Someone told me speak victory, my reality's a bitch to me. Constant. I have a five year old daughter and I'm experiencing this nonsense. Where do I go from here? could cripple myself through fear and end up a carbon copy of my worst nightmare. I fight , there's a reason I'm still here, as the seasons continue to gray my hair. I'm still young, I'm still dope boy fresh, aren't I? But I never sold dope, maybe I should make me a few stacks, bubble in some 'hood. Whoop, Whoop! Now I'm someone's statistic. Trying to feed my family. Realistically I know I can't sell drugs, I'm too old to be cookin' and lookin' out for po po. So I write on this project bench in hopes that one day I won't have to live from Monday through Sunday on someone's couch or in the park. I have big dreams and a plan to stand on my own too. Big things are in store for me. I'm Big Meach of this bench, and everyday I move closer, if just an inch, it's still forward. My glass is half full, so I drink from that pool. It's not polluted, poisoned, or diluted. It's pure. It's my drive to survive, persist, carry on, remain alive. It's my human spirit, which is good like my creator, and he endowed me with the ability to change all of this. So fuck the haters and naysayers, from this project bench I am still a major player in the game of life.

I am a dynamic individual, I'll write a verse and disperse lyrical darts without the aide of profanity. I love the guy that I see when I look in the mirror and that's not vanity. I love my daughter too and her mama, but I can't stand beefin' I don't like drama. I believe in Karma and what you put out there the Universe gives you back. Sometimes my thoughts are destructive like the copious consumption of crack. I enjoy sex with liberatedly loose women whose intelligence is equally as evident as mine. I'm about something, forward motion, if she's not I don't waste my time. I admire beauty in all forms, and don't necessarily subscribe to social norms. I love Hip Hop, especially the underground kind, I find that more thought is given to constructing those rhymes. Different themes are explored, numerous subjects discussed, as opposed to tales of urban decay and the guns cats bus'. Speaking of busts, I also have issues with lust, shorties often catch me leering at them, some respond with genuine interest others react in disgust. To each his own, this world I'll roam, who knows I might just set up shop next to the Pope's home in Rome Italy, with a pretty lil' Italian shorty named Sicily. I'm dope like blue magic and comic but not tragic, I have a great sense of humor and style that's mad classic. I'm fantastic! Okay, back down to earth, I have to remember to humble myself I'm a Leo by birth and I realize my worth, that's why being broke it hurts. However, I'll never forsake my royal roots and feel like a king even with holes in my boots. I make the money, the doesn't make me, it never has. Frankly, I'm the hottest to hit any scene since Drake the bearer of melodically poetic aesthetics whose words are medicinally prophetic-I let it flow through me. I am merely a vessel, the Universe uses me, my pen's my jewelery, my armor and tools. You see, writing is a release for me, a taming of the beast in me, without it I would cease to be. I am a writer, who I am is an ever evolving being who's open to new ways of seeing, like 3DHD with utter and complete clarity. Pristine transparency, I'm not hiding, I'm riding my skateboard through urban municipalities while listening to the first Mobb Deep album, and popping complicated tricks. That's what I do, I'm that cool-in my mind. I'm dope like blue magic.

How many of us have been abused by adults? I know I'm not the only one who has cried out for help. Too young to help myself, too scared to protect myself. This shit was real, maybe it was the initial abuse that made me not want to feel anymore. My emotions were raw, I wanted to become numb. They tried to steal my innocence, and in a sense they did. I was a depressed and sad kid who's dad hid from his responsibilites, in fected by the pathogenic qualities of homelessness, hunger, and poverty. I watched as my mother sank into the murky depths of depression, while I played out my addiction through the artistic expression of my agression known as graffitti. I stole spray paint and wrote my name wherever you could see me. I felt invisible but became visible through aerosol tags and throwups. I rebelled, I showed those grownups what they could do with themselves. You see, if they didn't give a fuck then how was I suppose to care for me? I didn't. I did what I wanted, I smoked blunts, dranks 40's , and went on the hunt for pussy from shorties who were just as emotionally twisted as I, that was a piece of my high. I got caught writing, shipped to Spotford, nail biting, I was a nervous wreak. Lived in a group home after that, then released back to the streets with no direction, no map to follow, no rolls to model. I felt like an outcast, trapped in the extraordinary confines of my youth at the time. If the behavior was negative I was engaged, that was how I channelled my rage. Years before my introduction of pen to page, I acted out my life on a dangerous and uncertain stage. My juvenile delinquent phase was colored with anger and hopelessness and I wanted to escape my reality. The duality was that I also wanted to live a different existance, as the forces of my personal destruction remained persistant, and I couldn't see my future. The distance was so vast as to cloud my vision of it. Decisions, or, rather, a series of bad choices embarrassments, and situations I would have preferred to avoid, as the smoke from the herb fills my lungs, travels to my brain, making me paranoid. To fill a void, I drank and developed a deep relationship with a girl I met in Washington Heights. She wasn't Dominican, she was white and we'd go skiing together every other night....