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selina May 13
t/w: violence, death

-

dear little miss dreamer
i'm sorry i couldn't write to you sooner
but yesterday night, i've read all three
each and every one of your letters

your mother sounds lovely
a brave woman, from what you've told me
if your brother comes by downtown
tell him, he's welcome to visit me

you have some big dreams
and i hope i can help them come true
i'm sorry i've been so busy
but i would truly love to meet you

you remind me of my wife
of her dreams when she was your age
we grew up together in the center city
like you, she was wise beyond her days

i agree, we need to help kensington
and we've begun taking some small steps
i'm pushing for a new bill to pass
but it'll still take some time to prep

i know you mentioned drugs and violence
and yes, i agree, it's completely true
please stay safe and stay inside
it could help protect you

actually, that just reminded me about kensington
my wife had told me some shocking news
a mother murdered at her kitchen counter
a little girl, shot, in the same view

i think she was writing a letter, too
but i don't quite remember who exactly to
it was titled, i think, "dear mister life-changer"
wait, it couldn't be— no, God, please, not you—
this is the second poem that continues the story in the previous one. the congressman send his reply, but... it's a bit too late now
Mark Nov 2020
For real, keep it on loop
I dig it a lot, like mama’s corn soup
You feelin’ me, hearing that tune
Or maybe I’m in the wrong room
Get up on it, know what I mean
Jammin’ on hot scones with cream
This song needs to tell our life stories
We all have battles forever in our lives
When you hear the sound of pop pop, oh no
Kids gettin’ shot for a pair of shoes in Chicago

Tough neighbourhood street
Corrupt badges on the beat
Planting dope, selling candy at the corner shop
Writing songs, tagging everywhere, if you dare
Doin’ time, enter from behind, I never, I swear
Come out on parole, new king on throne, lost all control
If I had my time again, I’d save a lot more, forget ‘bout toys
Look over my shoulders, stick to the plan, escape from the boys

They aren’t speakin’ our language
Let’s get the hell outta there, somewhere tranquil
Day by day, lets see if we can crack the code
Try placing ones thoughts in a brand new abode
For better or worse, it’s up to you, not your corner crew
We grow up thinking we had to listen, who knew
Step outside the hood, look around, don’t be shy
Then buy a one-way Greyhound ticket, say bye bye
At the start it might feel hard, but give it a chance
You’ll be surprised what you find, just take that first glance

Tough neighbourhood street
Corrupt badges on the beat
Planting dope, selling candy at the corner shop
Writing songs, tagging everywhere, if you dare
Doin’ time, enter from behind, I never, I swear
Come out on parole, new king on throne, lost all control
If I had my time again, I’d save a lot more, forget ‘bout toys
Look over my shoulders, stick to the plan, escape from the boys
Mark Nov 2020
Hoodlum’s hanging ‘bout the corner block
Waiting patiently all day, everyday
Chose the wrong path, no coming back

Users two, that have no fear
Eagle eyed and bouncing here
Payin’ for a simple shot of gear

Death has struck that corner block
Legends leave, then newbies flock
Mothers pain, worse than news from Iraq
   
Yes it haunts us, ghetto lives
Slain by bullets and kitchen knives
Never able to wed our future brides

Users two, just felt the fear
Eagle eyed and bouncing here
Once done, nature will expel their gear

Whilst playin’ in the gangland night and day
Hoping his brotherhood won’t go away
Hoping as their bodies start to sway

Forever searching for respect
Wanting to live, but waiting for death
Hood life, that’s all you can expect?
Sarah Flynn Oct 2020
“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.

my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”

I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****.
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”

and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.

still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.

he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.

the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.

there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.

I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.

most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.

he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”

here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.

here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.

here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.

here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.

here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.

here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.

his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.

she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.

she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.

here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.

he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.

but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.
Red Alert! Red
Alert!
Red Flag! New
Blood Alert!!

They say I was
blood
born
They got me cornered
like
Rampage
Who's locked away
inside of a
Steel Cage

Fits of Rage!!

Beat my head against
the
side of the Steel
Cage
Several times
Then I

Blacked Out

Woke up in a
blo#dy
mess
A bloodbath with
Blo#dy fist
In a panic
What is this?!

Or is this just the
color
of my shirt?

Oh No!
On my pants and my
shoes too?!
Man..
Just color me Color-
blind
with a couple la
screws
loose

Cause I'm Black
and
Blue too

The Crip side of me
Sick side of me
inside of me
Inciting me to start
a
riot
Violently

But man..

There's just got to
be
something
seriously wrong with
me?!

So I looked in the
Mirror
to see something looking
back at me

And to my
surprise!!

The silhouette of a
Black Panther
Was glaring back at
me?

Ok Ok..
Now I get it

Like I've been snapped
back to Reality
Back to the ties that
bind
through time
A flash-back to
Originality

Back to my place of
Origin
My Nationality

And so
As I reminisce on the
Power
of the Black Fist
Fused with the anthem of
Black Pride

The Blood Crips N
Unity

So tell me all my Brothers
&
Sisters of the Black-
Community
Raising gunz instead of Fist

Just who am I?
A follow up to" Vipers " Crazy thing is i wrote this 5 yrs ago. Not my story, but the story of a lot of my brothers and sisters caught up in the violent gang infested neighborhoods in our communities.
But as history shows it did not start out that way.. Something to think about 🤔
Beware of Vipers
Although they
may
strike
Venomously
Low-key
Will spit their
poison
Out
with open mouths
Proud
Showing teeth
Yet I purposely forgot
to call'em
Fangs
Because they ain't
showing me
A Thang
Never pledged
Alleigence
to a Click
Crew or a
Gang
It's all the same
Nothing but
sneaky
Snakes
in the grass
I guess.. I place the
Blame
On the Streets
While harboring
Regrets
and threats from
Police
But Hey
Not me
For I remain
Seperated
from each
For a
Hard Head
leads to an early
Death bed
So as for me
That's just too
Harsh
of a lesson to learn
Yo I rather
Teach
I want to elaborate when I say.. I place the blame on the Streets. Now normally when a son or a daughter has strayed away from the right path, we would blame the parents, seeing how they are solely responsible for the upbringing of that child. But in the many cases such as this were the parents are not in the picture, or have failed in raising that child?
Then I feel that the blame has to be shared or carried over to whomever or whatever has contributed to, or has taken their place.. Just saying
Prequel to " Blood Crips N Unity "
Cierra thibert Sep 2020
War
Here is a tale of blood, guts and war
The war is over but its still raging within
I can hear the bombs going off,hear the screaming as they hit the ground.
I’m back in Rhode Island Street, Highland Park, Detroit.
War has turned my heart to stone.
Now that you're gone I live alone, in this empty home remembering every word you've said.
Didn't bother to learn to become a father, old school all the way.
A 72 gran torino on display, I lived to work
Retired from 30 years in the auto plant.
Slowly the world has passed me by.
More black, more brown, more slant eyed
Still I know right from wrong
It’s the same here as in Hong Kong
When coward gangs seek power and control
I have to let them know they are digging themselves a hole
The weak and defenceless look with tired eyes
They let themselves become victims of a drive by shooting
I never express feelings of regret or remorse
In the night I made a plan
Go without a knife or gun in my hand
defeat my enemy with my brain
Making them believe I was insane
In an attempt to take on the entire gang
Yet they listened to my brave harangue
So I reached into my jacket for a lighter
They reacted like any street fighter
Opened fire to stop this threat
The church bells ringing
My body now in a casket
If you listen closely you can hear me say i'm the one to finish things
Poetic T Apr 2020
I'm no trailer park trash,
you may live
                      forty three stories more than me..

But I'll reach higher than you any day of the week.

I only have to take one step,
                             to tell what is
                        curb crawling around me.

Trying to sell me false hopes,
            selling me bath salt dreams.

But there more like bubble bath,
          popping before I even enjoyed it.

Your hopes and dreams are sky high,
illusions of
           your first steps.
A worthless dime falling from  a great height.


              No one even heard you
                                           plunge...

Cos there only interested what's
                                      happening on the street..

Your just a stain that no one really looked at,

                                                        cares about.


    As there's plenty more chalk outlines
                            that children hopscotch over..

Can you count to ten..


Then there's another gunshot..
          like a storm, they hitting in the distance..

Just another cold breath that falls from ground zero...
                                                  burn stains on the
side-lines
                    that play pause.



                                        No breath... no care.

I'm here at ground zero,
            your up there in your fairy-tale

hanging from your chandelier,

But I'm swinging lower but still breathing.
Mark Apr 2020
So, our hero of tha day waz DJ Herc  
He b driven’ lil Mizz Dazze ‘round, in a pimped out Merc  
Queensbridge waz tha birthplace of Hip-Hop  
Red alert, it just won’t stop  
It will hurt uz a bit  
No more than a **** wid a hit  
Wee all thank Merc 4 puttin’ on dat show  
Smokin’ sum **** n angel dust, wid sum real blow  
 
A bro named, Coke LA Rock, waz also a financier friend of mine  
Handin’ out goodies 2 tha children in-line, all tha time  
Nickel bag half n ounce, quarter pound pow, now wee poppin’  
Az long az tha music izn’t stoppin’ and tha rocks r still droppin’  
If champagne waz still a flowin’, then tha freaks wood b steppin’ in line  
Hotel, Motel, u don’t tell, wee don’t tell, one-time root 9  
There’s notta man dat can’t b thrown, a horse dat can’t b rode  
A bull dat can’t b stopped, a disco dat can’t b rocked, can u decode  
 
Were u @ dat famous house party, thee dope  
Spinnin’ tha holy crates of hip-hop, wee hope  
A1 B-boy from every known neighborhood, wid a scent  
From JC, Tony D’, Sweet n Sour, 2 super DJ ‘Fcukin’ Clark Kent  
Sellin’ nickel bags of cannabis, 2 miss layD hoes to mi crew  
Made mi coin roll into notes, helping outta few dat I knew  
Hip-Hop waz made 4 peace, love, unity n fun  
Still b countin’ mi riches, retired n still layin’ in tha hot sun
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