If you’re living your street dream,
do what you do.
But whatever you do—
don’t let your street dream live you.
I’ve been incarcerated since I was 14. I’ve done a lot in my life, and I’m proud that I’ve been working toward rehabilitation. I’m trying to better myself, not just for me, but for my family as well.
I’ve written a poem. Actually, a lot of my poems are based on what I see and feel. This one is called Street Dreams. It’s a little fabricated, but a lot of it comes from my life.
See, at the beginning, it was all a dream.
Then I started living by the rules of the streets
and it became my reality.
But I wasn’t worried about the struggles.
I was focused on flipping that property, turning a profit
not realizing I was turning into the devil.
I was hypnotized by the fancy clothes, tight cars,
and all the women.
But no one taught me the real cost
like selling drugs to my own people and their children.
Yeah, my street dream was good… while it lasted.
But money came, and the streets turned Jurassic.
Some got blasted.
Some died.
Some lived.
I stayed in the game, lucky not to be killed.
I was only 14
chasing fame,
getting caught up in the street gang.
I’d stay out late, not listening to Mom,
living that lifestyle like no one could stop me.
Then the police got behind me.
My heart pounded, adrenaline raced—
and next thing I knew,
We were in a high-speed chase.
But it felt fun
twisting corners,
getting away.
We ditched the car.
Me and my homies split.
I ran home—
they got caught by noon the next day.
There was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me, Ms. Patrick.
You think your son was just dreaming this?”
Mom turned to me with that look—
the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-now, boy? kind of look.
I wasn’t taking any chances.
I jumped off the couch,
slipped on my corduroy slippers,
and ran out the back.
But to my surprise
I was under attack.
Rushed to the ground,
handcuffed,
taken to jail.
That was just the beginning of my personal hell.
They questioned me for carjacking and robbery.
Said they had my homie’s statement.
Offered me a deal
if I admitted, I’d get sent to an out-of-state placement.
But wait a minute—
this wasn’t part of the dream.
I wasn’t supposed to get caught.
And your homies?
They were supposed to stay tight.
But either way,
I ended up with 50 years and two strikes.
And now, I’m in San Quentin State Prison.
My advice to anyone out there:
If you’re living your street dream,
do what you do.
But whatever you do—
don’t let your street dream live you.
