Heaven Ain’t Built But As A Cage

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

I keep reliving that one time when I died. It was not elegant. There was no angel light. No one pressed me to their bosom, wet my face with tears. There were no last wise words spoken. It was bloody. It hurt. My Mom would never had known cause I had no ID. Just a namesless nigga on a hospital bed convulsing, swollen like a ripe melon, begging for relief. Someone said proudly, “You were gone, but we got you back…”

I remember that part. I don’t know how much time had passed. I don’t remember asking questions. I remember looking in the mirror before I stumbled out cause I had no insurance. Stitches in my eyelid, a finger cause I apparently threw up a hand to block a knife lunge which possibly saved my eye. My arms were bruised from boot blows as I protected my head after going…

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