When I think of B a l t i m o r e… I think of heads hung low; Tides-- refusing to flow Closed minds & troubled eyes. Smoke in the faces of children Who didn’t ask to be born in Bus exhaustion or Natural Caution.
“Ain’t nobody happy here.”
The streets creep With tar that seeps Along broken glass jars (in brown paper bags, which I need not say- for the people can’t stand- the memories that stay) The faces rot! With frowns And heads pointed
down.
Bus stops. Endless amounts Of cops > Along Graveyards & graffiti art: Children fussin’ at each other for getting’ smart
Girls Goin’ to class To brush their hair & stare -into the mirror // rorrim eht otni- to paint their faces pace-less because they think [know] that’s the only way to make a name in these places