chapter 2: the gritty chicago streets

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You'll never make it

your stories are awful

if you can't make it out of this place what makes you think you'll get to the top.

The voices weren't in my head this time. They were coming from the rotten mouths of in educated children, minds set on drugs or gangs.

I wrote a short poem that day.

They say sh*t to try and bring me down but I don't let it get to me. I'm better than that.
I don't have to stoop to their level and say something back to them.

A guiding voice, my guardian angel, my uncle once told me to stay strong. No matter what.
No matter how bad all of the name calling, all of the punching and shoving, all of the kicks and tricks, all the crap got I had to hold my head up.

And I'll keep my head up until he tells me not to.

I love my uncle so much I don't know what I'd do with out him. Tommorow he's going to come over and read my stories.

I don't know why but I have this feeling in my stomach that a squid was wrestling with my organs.

I guess you could say I'm nervous. I've never been good enough for anybody and I don't want to let him down.

I never let anything get to my head, but this man means so much to me that even one sympathetic smile of pity would be enough to send all my notebooks to flame.

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