A crack baby and a fatherless child,
Product of your environment, like a sponge soaking everything up,
Like father like son, still wet behind the ears,
Breath smelling like Similac, young follower moving too fast,
A boy in a man’s body — hard-headed, didn’t think fat meat was greasy,
Not knowing what you were getting yourself into.
A simple, naïve small fry with no home training,
Young whipper-snapper behind the times,
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, one rotten apple
spoiled the whole bunch.
Throwing rocks then hiding your hand,
Following the blind straight into a brick wall,
Speaking without thinking, you reaped what you sowed.
Born and raised in the ghetto, concrete jungle,
The streets raised me, living a hard-knock life.
You liked walking on the wild side, the streets will eat you alive,
You got a lot to learn: if it was a snake it would have bit you.
No backbone — evil company corrupts good habits.
Things become finer with time.
Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.