Memoirs Of A Troubled Conscience

He was thinking this could be my last night if I let this guy find me. He tried to push the thought from himself and ran to another part of his mind.
See, he heard footsteps, didn’t know what to expect.
All he knows is that he's running from someone and that he's really buggin'.
He doesn’t know how to get away even though it’s of his construction.
In his head he remembered how they all said "stop the shit your doing boy, your killing yourself".
He remembered telling them "Don’t worry about me, I got myself".
His thought process was interrupted by a sound.
His calm was corrupted by the fear that he got found.
Nothing happened, so his heart stopped beating so hard and everything was slowing down.
Just then a voice broke the silence.
Had a hint of anger in it, mixed with a touch of violence.
The owner of the voice, was just another man, or was it a boy?
The figure was about his height, they looked alike except for the slight.
Differences, the figure had a small cut on his right cheek.
His right hand was kinda scarred and he kept his piece on the left side of his jeans.
He told him this is all your fault, you could have stopped you from getting killed.
He knew that every word was true and it left him with cold chills.
He hung his head low and tried to come to terms with his reality.
He tried to put a smile on his face to hide the fear in he.
He said pick your head back up in the air and then he pulled out.
Left the piece in his face so he could stare down the guns mouth.
He looked past the gun and up his arm just to see.
The one holding the gun to my face, was me...
He knew that he would die because of the way he lived.
Knew one day it would all catch up and come back for him.
On the outside, the smallest of a fuck he could not give.
But under the exterior he had conflict within.
He didn’t want to stop but he knew that he shouldn’t go.
Didn’t know what he was trying to prove, didn’t know what he was trying to show.
He could get everyone else to shut up about it but his conscience wouldn’t leave him alone.
So he started writing in his black notebook.
Writing to write away the emotions that had him shook.
His conscience told him everything your doing is killing you, he told it to shut up, put his notebook down and walked out his door.
And he never got to write the Memoirs of a troubled conscience anymore.....