The eye beholds my paranoia.
To California to Georgia.
I mastered the pressure that seems forever and hazardous.
But still they say back and they laughed at us.
I'm back picking up the pen cuz I need to write my wrongs.
My condolences and apologies for these poems.
I remember that first day of coming home.
I tripped but I did not trip on things I ain't know.
Unfamiliar faces made me nervous.
Wanting to commit convicted court cases for the disrespect of restricted territory.
I needed a get a way after all.
Now I'm popping heavier on Percocets,
for all the headaches I'm about to bring.
Somehow to this life I always cling.
Immature and ******* is what they all call me.
It's like I was coming home from the pen, but from the army.
If I can write all my wrongs maybe they'll bloom before I'm dead.
But instead that bullet hit me in the head as everyone walked by.