Kreative Korner

 To my unborn child, I'm sorry. We're sorry that we couldn't give you the life you deserved. Planting you perfectly without our knowledge, but reaping the spoils of your harvest before your chance to blossom. We'll be more responsible...if that was our problem, or maybe it was just God's way of repeatedly granting his blessings, an oath, kept in solemn. Say hello to your siblings for me, tell them daddy loves them. Mommy loves you too, she's just a bit scared. I held her hands right through to ensure you both were safe. She's still crying though, not knowing how you'd turn out. If you would've been chiseled and stunning like me, or smart-mouthed like her. Until we meet again, Love daddy.

                                                           I was about 8 months in when I held my first strap, Caressed by her hips, I held it firmly on my lap. The layers of my fat had hidden what the handle created as a bulge, Not even the cops that had passed, knew the actions in which I indulge. The mighty 14 shooter, chiseled perfectly in chrome and black, I now understand its glory, as for it addicts do battle, its presence, much like crack. Back to back, we faced each other, As I pray for safety, that nothing harms my mother. Ecstatically I jumped, bussing a move, a twirl, a dance, Inflicting the pain within, as she's determined to keep her stance Celebrating her victory, not knowing the pain that I caused, While I stood there wondering and concerned why she paused. Over two decades later, he still can see the scar That was caused by the precocious child, morphing into a protostar, Constructing a family of his own, he ensured his juniors met not the same fate, As he gobbled

Timmy was a typical ghetto youth; raised in a single-parent household, with the only male figurehead of a role-model, being his older brother, Mark. Their father had been a victim of the streets, as he had been employed to the corners, as the chief look out, as he was retired from front-line  duties after surviving an almost fatal shootout with the police. Their father, 'Billy Boy' served and executed in his role with pride, until the day he eventually succumbed to the effects of the shootout. Dimples, their mother was evidently distraught, and Mark assumed the role of 'man of the house' at just sixteen. Without hesitation, Mark placed his aspirations of becoming a professional football player on pause and started working after school and on weekends at the community wholesale, to help with the bills and food. He would also take his little brother Timmy with him to work, so he would be able to supervise him while their mother was at work, and so that he wouldn’t be enta