There is a portrait
Sketched in aerosol color of blood, gently preaching love
Every day I've passed it asking myself where it was
Years later
A local artist calls himself Truth, added a dove
Mostly white except grey letters that say
"No dreams left behind, no hopes shunned"
I am not much more than the legacy or signage saying welcome to the 6-1-7, peace to Huntington
We are where little more than where we're coming from
I always figured if I paint a picture
Call it poetry
When I needed a rhythm
I'd listen to the avenue grind and hum
You can title it a documentary, but the thought alone reminds me of a homie who said you are buried beneath hate only
He moved away to Jamaica Plain with his lady
She a trap queen
He called it escaping, all I really saw for enlightenment was tail lights
And I was never one to run
Asked if me and my family would follow
I said I would holla soon
Haven't spoke in some time
Funny to find
The red letters are bold as ever
Even as the walls surrounding dulled
The avenue still grinds to the familiar tune