Patched Jeans

"What was it like?" he asked.

So I told him of my home.

"Where I lived, let me first say there are always the more commercial sides of everything, but we existed in the small alley ways of local developments. We ran along side the lakes in our barefeet, drowning out any sense of caution in those waters. Never did we hesitate to lick our sticky hands from the frozen treats that were too short lived for this life. And on our noble treks home, we sang. Poured on by natures fury, billions of tears- but we made our presence known. Those who dared tell us to contain our voices received mocking laughs for they did not know the joys of freedom. And if ever you tried to come inside, you knew your mother would shake her head at you. Your clothes beyond hope. Covered in experience. Missing from opportunity. And all you could do was grin as you stripped on the back stoop because you were too far gone to enter a dwelling of order in your state of being. Life was beautiful."