I took a walk through my city until I got lost. I made it to a bridge away from everyone. I took a deep breath and jumped. I didn’t fall.
I spoke to an addict below an overpass; he told me he was there because he wanted to be like me. I should’ve fallen.
Before I landed and felt peace, a raspy crackhead voice spoke and said, “You don’t really want to jump.” I looked puzzled and replied, “You don’t know my life.” His eyes widened as he realized it was me, the biggest, richest, happiest, most loved rapper in the world. He said, “Why are you here?” I asked the same.
He said, “Because I wanted to be like you.”
I spoke to an addict below an overpass; he told me he was there because he wanted to be like me. Why didn’t I fall?
I said, “What do you mean?” He didn’t have to answer; I knew what he meant.
All I rapped about was drugs, women and money.
Every “bar” used as a ladder to further my addiction, every song an excuse to keep pouring, keep cutting up. My lyrics, his excuse.
He told me I taught him to chase what I said was a necessity.
A fix masked as freedom and power. I asked how old he was.
“20,” he said. I would’ve guessed 40.
I spoke to an addict below an overpass; he told me he was there because he wanted to be like me. Falling wouldn’t change my lyrics.
He stayed still through the entire interaction. I could’ve saved him; I thought of handing him the cash I threw at my vices and insecurities, but truthfully, he would do exactly what I do with the money. I walked away. I should’ve helped that young man. I wonder if he’s still there waiting. His face, aged four decades, molding and picking—eerie, my creation. I walked away with a new weight on my chest, heavier than ever. I saw that man, and I wonder how many I’ve killed.
I walked away instead of fixing my mess. Like always.
But his voice stayed with me—
A ghost under every overpass,
A face I’ll never forget.
How many more are there?
How many lives paid for my words?
I keep walking, but the weight doesn’t fade.
Now I wonder,
Was it him who held me down that day?
Or was it the weight of the lives I’d already taken,
Refusing to let me go?
My chest, heavier than the needles scattered
In the wet dirt below the overpass.
Grant Boston is a freshman at Revolution School in Philly. He likes music, from indie pop to rock to hip hop. He also loves to play football and hopefully will play for a team too.