King of the Concrete Wilderness

 The last thirteen years, exactly half of my twenty six years on earth, were spent raising hell, chasing girls, shootin dope, living on the edge with the rest of the outlaws and rebels like me. Thats where I've always felt the most comfortable.

It comes naturally to me, like breathing, where as life inside the clearly defined lines of social acceptability isn't as familiar to me, it feels like a lie, and within the margins of mainstream life I feel like a creature from the wild, captured and caged, put on display where those domesticated masses can study me safely, from a distance.

I nervously pace the confines of my limited space, and remember the days when I roamed the streets of the ghetto, sharp eyed and alert, an urban predator in search of his prey.

The concrete wilderness that shaped me, and hardened me calls to me in a voice that lives inside my bones themselves, and I wonder if I will ever again stalk the seedy parts of crowded cities, or if I will eventually give up, and slowly die, wasting away inside my prison of social acceptability.