The Novel...

(just a clip from a book I'm SLOWLY writing...Please give your constructive feedback...Thanks in advance...)

.....Do I wanna die--hell no, I'm too young, but Death has no respect for age. He's smooth as the air that moves across your face on the hottest day, but like the corner he's cold- bitter and unforgiving.
I guess me and Death got some things in common. Me? No, don't worry about me because I'm nothing more than a supplier. Too big to get pushed around and too small to have workers under me. My name doesn't matter, well, for now it doesn't, but you'll never forget my post-coming to a street corner near you.
My uncle and older cousins introduced me to the Streets and taught me to pimp her for everything she's got. She's the urban Wall street, so many crews offering goods to those who want in and sacks, caps, pounds, and bricks are sold like stocks and bonds- some for flat rates others to the highest bidder. If your product is just as attractive as the next man- diversify your bonds. Too many offering the same price for product for stock, owners may offer deals for consumers, lower prices- diversify. But there's so many stock owners with sales consultants , the streets are flooded. And you know what follows next, someone branches into someone else's market and the sales floor turns into a war.
I'm a top consultant. Fuck a briefcase, I hold product and heat. My corporate attire: hoodie, jeans and sneakers. The world is filled with movers and shakers, fish and sharks. The naive that go about accepting anything that the sharks leave them- these are the people I supply. Sharks have the world at their fingertips because they go and get what they want. They're ferocious and you can see their strength in their eyes. The lack of rest writes a red story from each retina, but there's an odd calm in their faces- it's them poised for attack. These people attack dreams relentlessly and do whatever it takes to get there.....

...Society has labeled my kind as the dangerous killers, but everyone is dangerous. Whether we admit it or not we all are interconnected. Although my kind has chosen to hold the pistol, how is everyone else killing you? Is it in word or deed? Who is smiling in your face and ready to plunge the dagger in your back? Who has murdered your soul today? I'm more honest because I don't try to be something I'm not. I have a purpose, although unsure at times, but to the world on the outside looking in, I don't have an identity. My face; you would love to see my face to associate something or someone with the change that you feel searing through your body. Who would've thought that peoples dreams and aspirations, the things that you bleed, sweat and shed tears for, can come in a capsule or baggie. I am the sandman and you can pick your pain, I mean, pleasure.
Like you I, too, have a dream. Clean streets, a better home. Clothes that are nice and sneakers that fit me- not the two people that wore them before me. I dream in color, but my dreams are as simple as being in black and white. I dream larger than life because I control my outcome and with the Creator's help I am man made invincible.
But I realize that nevertheless I am man-made in the Creator's image, nothing but a copy. No shine and no glitter. To most my face is only a memory, a black face not separate, nor unique in the sea of other black, brown, etc. faces in the Streets, affectionately known as the ghetto....