I told a lot stories I still tell didn't do as much writing as I do now spent a lot of time in the library standing in the isles staring at books on the shelves waiting for one to jump out at me one day I discovered a versatile writer who was battling some sticky demons he scrawled his pain on paper I could only imagine in red he was a Puerto Rican brother poet playwright and storyteller from NYC who lived on the "Lower East Side" the stories he told weren't always cool breeze and sun shine the brother struggled to find a piece of mind he wanted us to see what poverty discrimination crime and drugs could do to a population through his eyes he desired to give a voice to his community and leave a strong legacy the more I delved into his collected works capturing a tragic life I realized it wasn't the poetry that captivated me as much as it was the person who wrote the words that helped me
develope a unique style a strong creative way to battle depression and shape the meaning of my life