I used to be the illest poet I knew... But somethin’ died in me when he died and he, took my love for written word up to God to see, what his mommy really was before the tragedy, before my love and will to live was just snatched from me... I used to be the illest poet I knew..

And words flowed from my lips with such ease, they brought chills like a cold Winter’s breeze, not even the heart of the ghetto could make me give up and let go of the person I was destined to be...

Written word was my escape route, my pen and pad was my way out, when I was sad, alone, confused and hurt, it was my way to vent, to take out- all my anger and fears constructively on something that couldn’t hurt me, in return but just listen, take my pain, all them visions and lock ‘em deep within a place that at night, couldn’t haunt me.

My coping method, they saw as talent, a true gift, something God-sent, I realized the beauty in the way I shared my thoughts as the days went. I used it to tell my story and create works of fiction, while reminiscing on my past making known my existence, I wrote of things unwitnessed, unmentioned, uncensored, bringing fans while all I did was write of things as I dreamed it, thought it, seen it, I swear it flowed with such ease, like a bone-chilling gust from a cold Winter’s breeze..

The talent I was blessed with mitigated the things I dealt with, the trials and tribs of my life, in my book is where I left it... Can’t forget the day I felt it, the first kick, a heartbeat, someone coming into the world to make this life of mine complete. My son gave life a new meaning, gave me things to believe in, complimenting who I was and who I was planning on being. My passion for poetry grew, without a doubt I knew, who I was and for a living what I wanted to do.

But when he died, I cried, I fought, I blamed, I screamed, I kicked, cursed God in vain; I said to hell with life, to hell with pain, with friends, with family, with sunshine, with rain; to hell with everything, to hell with everyone, because life just wasn’t worth it without my son. Everything I once loved, everything I once knew, all the people and things that helped me get through, I gave them all up, screamed ‘just let me be’, ripped up all my poems, to hell with poetry..

I used to be the illest poet I knew.. But somethin’ died in me when he died and he, took my love for written word up to God to see, what his mommy really was before the tragedy, before my love and will to live was just snatched from me.. I used to be the illest poet I knew..

Crazy how the thought of him has reminded me of that and instead of hating it, im beginning to love it again..

Dedicated to Brandon Collins, .Jr.