My Heart Don’t Bleed.

So I was standing in the kitchen one afternoon. I just got home from sellin my soul… I mean working on the plantation…sorry…I mean I just got home from work. Work is what it’s supposed to be called. Well, that’s what they call it. I call it selling my soul. Never underestimate the power of the dollar. When you’re into the man for 80 grand you’ll do just about anything to get out from underneath his hand. Anyways, the kitchen. Standing in the kitchen when the man came around. Fuckin guy. In this instance the man happened to be my white grandfather. Nowadays I wouldn’t say “grand”, but that’s another story for another time. At that time, he was my white grandfather, not to be confused with my black grandfather. So here I am, in my fathers house, my black fathers house. You see, my black father married my grandfathers white daughter, had some kids, yada, yada, yada, another story for another time. At this time, my white mothers white parents were living under my black father and white mothers roof. Also, during those times almost every afternoon, after I clocked out of that god forsaken job I would stop at that house to check up on all these people from my childhood, play with my dog, and sit on their front steps, basking in the sun, reflecting on my life choices. Fuck, I digress. Anyways, so I was standing in the kitchen one afternoon with my white grandfather and here’s this motherfucker, this motherfucker, just comes out with it: “You know, I don’t believe in interracial marriages. I think the kids will just end up being fucked up.” Well, goddamnit Kennith, you cut me deep you old bastard. Cut me deep! But old man, lemme tell ya suttin, this old heart of mine don’t bleed. I didn’t give a shit really. Like I said earlier, I had already sold my soul. I didn’t say shit to him, I just quietly continued about my business and proceeded outside, towards the light. Him and the rest of the rest of his white america had been sticking knives like that in my heart since I was bout 2 years old. Shit, since before I was born. Other stories for other times. I don’t know why, but for some reason that one afternoon never escapes my memory. That old fucker. I never do immediately respond to any of the shitty things people say to me or do to me. Before that day I didn’t know if growing up in america just made me expect the worst of people so I wouldn’t be suprised when they told  me how they really felt or if it’s just that old bastard was right and I really am fucked up and I wake up everyday not giving a fuck what anyone thinks, says, or does. Anyways, that was the afternoon I had that question answered for me. That was the afternoon I realized I’m just a fucked up, cynical, soulless, bastard, lookin for a good time in a bad place.

-Fresh