Did you know we built a library of self-help documents for inmates and their loved ones over the decades? Check it out: Self-help Series.

Story of My Pain

Story of My Pain

Can you feel my pain? What about the beauty in my struggle? In the moments of grief when hope is lost, could you believe in me? If I promised the world and came up short, would you still stick? I apologize for my rough edges and actions that are less than classy. You can’t forget I’m not a product of my environment, but the hood still raised me. I’m the offshoot of a different struggle. My mother is another queen that let her crown become dusty. She fell into the grips of hatred and the depression left scars on her heart, but you can still see her shine if you look hard. She taught me a lot and watching her struggle gave me respect for a woman’s strength. I fell victim to myself. My pride holds the blame. I count my blessings that I avoided death. I was in the streets playing games, envious of broken role models. I used crime to vent my pain; I was ignorant with pride and lost in my own façade. Lonely in my heart I signed my life to the streets, my friends became my brothers, and we started chasing dreams. Our idols fell victim to brick walls and six-foot caskets. Still, we forged forward to find misery and our brothers wrapped in plastic. Now I share the same fate as the ones I once envied, slowly showing recognition to my sadness that fueled my hate. I was angry at the world and empty in my heart. I held hands with death, you can still see my scars. I’m broken, bruised, and battered, but there’s shine in my smile. My question remains the same with my broken promises, and soul of mended glass: Would you believe in me long enough to build and bond and open up your heart? We’ve both seen the lows, and together we could be fly. I’m rough on the edges, but get smoother with time.

See all poetry for Christopher Sweeney #21018674