• i walk through these forgotten slums of this city,
    and recognize images of garbage lined pathways, spray paint and squalor.
    It takes a minute, but my mind conjures up faint, idyllic memories
    of when the garbage, the spray paint and the squalor:
    they were my home.

    it wasn't long ago when i sought comfort out bottles
    in which love allways emptied too quickly.
    and entertainment in the stale, but familiar smell of cigarettes
    that burned so gloriously between the grips of my small, fragile hands.

    I take these images and memories to hold
    and realize how lucky i was to be able to leave so easily,
    but i think solemly about the people -
    whom i've loved, and who i will continue loving -
    and remain
    stuck