He chases the high with his mouth open like it’s his last breath of life,
Running in circles like a lunatic, till he finds his next supply,
And never is he satisfied, even when his sweaty pockets go dry.
He’s the guy living under the bridge and doesn’t give a damn why.
My dad’s a dope fiend.
Like his oldest son who lies in the grave, he has no life.
He’s the slave to the demons, who submits without a fight.
There’s no remorse for his actions, he smoked those the other night.
And when he said he loved his kids, he was talking about his pipes.
My dad’s a dope fiend.
Though his body has hunger pains, it’s hard for him to choose.
Two needs, one addiction, the other is bound to lose.
He questions, “Should I buy a dime, or should I buy me some food?”
His thoughts are, ‘Eat for what? Get high, Dummy!’ My thoughts, ‘Yeah, I should have known.’
My dad’s a dope fiend.
When his veins scream and cry, he rocks his babies to sleep,
Puts the bottle to their mouth, till their stomachs can’t breathe.
To them, he’s an all-star father, seven days a week.
He even shows how he loves them by the wounds on his sleeve.
My dad’s a dope fiend.
He’s like the guy with the basket, picking up cans, looking lost and confused.
In his mind he has a plan, ‘Buy some beers and some smoke.
Man, fuck new shoes!’
What happened to the man who bought me presents, I think, when I was two?
My mom’s like, ‘Son, are you kidding!? That stuff was donated to you!’ Damn…
My dad’s a dope fiend.
Inspired by the father I never had who spent most of my life in prison and on drugs.
Dedicated to him and anyone who can relate.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Joel loves to write and is striving to be a legendary poet. He can be contacted at:
Joel Orcasitas #01404226
McConnell Unit
3001 S. Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102
When my family moved to Texas, we had only been there a week when it became apparent I was so lucky to have been raised in such a diverse environment. My dad and I drove from our home in the countryside to a small East Texas town to pick up construction material and a few groceries. On the way out of town, we stopped at a grocery store. It was one of those old country stores – small, well lit, clean. It had the smell of fresh bread baking and home.
I don’t understand why people treat others differently because of the color of their skin or their religion. When I read Andre’s story, I cried – especially when I saw him standing there with that big smile and his arms around his family.
You gave me a voice to be heard,
Remember when you were seven years old? Take a trip with me, humor me if you will. You’re seven. You live in middle class America, and you’ve been strung along in the fantasy that Santa Claus exists.
I lived like that for years – until Evelyn found me, inspired me, nurtured me and blessed me a thousand times over. So, for the last two years, I haven’t had to play ‘The Company Store’ game. But, time marches on, people get tired, tired of waiting for you to come home. They sometimes forget about you. I understand this all too well. I’ve been waiting for that bike since I was 48.
There is nothing I can imagine more terrifying than a parole interview. All the time under your belt means nothing in those brief moments. Your entire life depends upon how you present yourself, how you project, body language. It’s all on the line, and you might not get a chance to see the review process again for God knows how long.
Angry for all the years I’ve lost,
When you first arrive off the transport van, you are interviewed by the ‘Death Row Classification Committee’, handed a rule book and told that you are expected to follow the rules and policies. Just a few days before, you were condemned to die by lethal injection because they believe you can’t be rehabilitated and are incapable of following any rules.
Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
There he sat, surrounded by Rocket haters, watching Houston destroy Orlando in four games – a sweep. I’ve watched and loved the Rockets since I was eight years old. My Uncle Mike was stationed in San Diego at the time, and he took me to my first pro basketball game. In their first two seasons, they were the San Diego Rockets, and they moved to Houston in 1970. I’ve been a Houston Rockets fan ever since.