How bitter sweet is the air I breath? Bitter with the scent of conflict and self induced continuous internal battles.
I was born in the highlands of East Baltimore. Raised well into adult age in comfort and contentment. My homeland I have not seen well beyond a fortnights time.
I came here a dreamer with nightmares in my eyes and haunted days of fear behind me. I am a bard of sorrows journey.
Then one morning I arrived in the land of the lone star shit kickers and saw ranchers leading horses across the fucking road and I thought.
Holy shit. What fuck kind a place did I arrive in?
I kid you not my dude. Fucking horses being led across the highway. Holy shit.
That shit was a sign. I had just stepped into the lone star state my dude.
My tale is unfolding. My growth is continuing. Two and half years in the pussy I was seems like a lifetime ago. In this strange place of rough and real traditions and history of bold and iron I find myself a man.
This place of shit kicking cowboys of puerto rican Cassinova charmers. This place.
The West. This place where comedy and rhythm formed in my mind and I laugh and I do grieve the parting of my youthful innocents and I do welcome the gusto and embracing of my own path to manhood. On the lone star roads my feet walk to rhythm.
The road of conflict. The road of a ride that just doesn’t end.