When a man emerge
from the dark city streets
in search of light.

Getting away from ghetto
Past remain a tattoo
I have found a path too.

But the scars articulated in my face
Will always remind  me where I  was
yesterday.

So I remained humble too,
Knowing today life is harmful to
Someone. Under the street light.

It was named after the bodies that lay below,
whose tombs stood close by,
whose families still cry.
It was for those that had nowhere to go,
those who let out a sigh,
those who wouldn't cry.
It was where the days felt the most slow,
but still we all said hi
and still we all gave it a try.
It is called Home, for those who got to grow,
for those who didn't die
and those who made it by.

Gun smoke all we breathe
Violence is all we see
Sirens is all we hear
Pain is all we feel
Death is always near

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
Above the dried bloodstains;
Its wings bat away toxic breaths
Perverse and untamed.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz—
Great beauty of little worth.
Through tear gas, dodging bullets
With wings like the Fellbeasts of Middle-earth.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
No smile, no glance, no words to speak.
It wipes away a child's fresh tear
As it passes by its cheek.

Black men were stripped of their power and might.
Surviving in the streets
taught them how to strive and fight.
I turn the TV on, not a black man in sight.
Unless he dribble or he fiddle  mics.
Every black boy wants to grow up and be like Nas or Mike.
Blacks are not televised unless they are brocasted to fight.
I ride through the city's bright night lights, thinking one day how ɰє mıɢһţ live better.

I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.

They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.

The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.

The ghetto *****-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.