I thought… I knew… I believed… But didn’t achieve… Marveling at my own blood after punching a stone wall in rage because I couldn’t pay em all back. Betrayed… Caught… And put in an iron box to be forcefully humbled by the slow passing of time. Talked about, laughed at because of my down fall, then forgotten. I wanted what I embraced to be real… To mean something. To justify the use of the violent wildness in me. This bandana I held dear since I was 13/14 led me on a lot of strange adventures. A lot of Fighting, running, and wasting of the only time I’ll ever get to be alive here in this world. To feel the love, I hated… And the hate poisoned my mind and warped my beliefs about the value of how a real man is supposed to live and be. Even now, I’m still sometimes in a panic to keep that arrogant bastard in me tied down. He just don’t like to listen or give passes. I have to do it tho… Till my last breath, my only hope’s in letting my enemies have thier little jokes and laughs at my disgraceful and mysterious exiting of all that madness…was it my eventual fall to drugs?… My obsession over some crazy woman?…Fear finally buckling me down into hiding?… Or was it truely that I’ve changed… That’s for me to know… All that matters is Pack’s still alive and breathing… Fighting to just Stay out the way. Peace.

Published by Pack Redfeather

I am a walking contradiction of traditions some say. An African American and Native American Muslim poet with a personal life history as violently turbulent as a Storm. A visionary from the bottom of life’s social barrel striving to share the hope found in the light of faith through sometimes dark but real poetry. I’m a former member of the Bloods street gang, former serial bank robber, and both federal/state prison convict. I live on my mother’s tribal reservation of the Leech Lake band of Ojibwe in Minnesota.

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