Who Could I Have Been?
22 years and a dream,
It took 22 too see, who could I have been?
I’m in 22 deep, thousands of cuts and bruises.
Battles with dreams from writing to music.
If my walls could talk they’d recall the nights,
Record the days and recall my life.
When things weren’t clear I’ve always had you there,
In my heart, reminding me who I could have been.
After all I’ve seen, who could I have been?
The guy on the corner or the guy at the desk.
Friends fall victim to the system could I be next?
They say ‘a picture paints a thousand words’ but I write instead.
A thousand words of pain and a thousand of strength,
I used to carry anger now I carry a pen.
Where would I be now if I had carried it then.
Put it down then pick it up and I carry again.
If I knew then what I know now where would I stand,
But time waits for no man
And growth isn’t planned.
Nonetheless I’m still indebted to where this began.
Castletown Road, in a 1 bedroom flat.
3 boys, a baby on the way, 2 absent dads,
But wouldn’t change it if it changed me from the man that I am.
If it were possible I’d love to go back.
I’d tell myself it won’t be easy,
Along the way there’s bumps and pain.
Along the way there’s hurt and rage.
But it gets better so I’d tell myself to stay.
I’d tell myself that at 18 you won’t have it all figured out and that’s okay.
In the end you always learn, so make your mistakes.
Go ahead and be great.
Go ahead… for what’s ahead is the catalyst for change.
In 22 years you’d make a handful of friends.
But remember a handful is still full, so appreciate them.
And despite all the pain and in spite of the stress,
You’ll learn to cry tears of joy and smile when you’re depressed.
For whatever I am influences what I’ll become,
Even when heaven gained an angel and we lost one,
We still had dreams
And without those who would I have been?
Still Busy In Wonder.
Asya Valentine
In silence there’s noise. The untold can be so pure and valid. We often judge people on what we see and hear, removing context and ignoring the fact that we are constantly playing roles in society. We grow and mould our image, but character is harder to manipulate. Character is final. It’s who you are, the foundation of your existence.
The greatest thing about solitude is that it allows you the time to think. Every so often I have to remove myself from society to recollect my thoughts. In a funny way my response to any feelings of pain or loneliness is to seclude myself, it’s weird the way the mind works. But I guess there’s always an upside in all situations, even when it isn’t so blatant.
Times like this my mind ticks. I wonder what awaits me, what’s next in this life. One of my youngers told me he’s lost in life, he looked at me like I had the answers but all I can offer is an ear. I ain’t selfish I’m just lost too. So uncertain, not sure where this journey will take me. All I can do is document this all. The thing about being lost is you never really know exactly where it is that you are trying to go. Imagine being on a train without a final destination, you just sit and wait, hoping that someone will tell you where to get off, but nobody shows, so you sit and wait and wait and wait.
I struggled writing this. In fact I didn’t want to write this at all. I shouldn’t be writing this because quite frankly it shouldn’t have happened. After hours of interviews, hours of debate and a seemingly endless stream of consciousness, one thing is certain, this was no tragedy. This is a disaster, the likes of which will never be forgotten and should be spoken about as such. Many are suggesting that the death toll could rise to the hundreds and this is only the beginning.