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TréAllen Warner Jan 2016
i walked through hollow valleys hardly filled with the death
a hooded bony structure dropped his villainous breath
i just grabbed the leaf, it was killing the stress
chained by my streets, i was feeling the mesh
death was spreading quick, kept the illness in check
hope it didn't reach me or even spill on my trek
maybe i was knew the homies walking and that they cripping
whispers slipping by, i was flipping and tripping
afraid i was next with the murderous vibes
it would fade in the depths, invade on my quest
knew i would be taken on the day of a threat
homies heavy grudging they be spraying the tec
so i can't be asleep; it's cousin wishes to slither
******, to the death, is a sinister sister
the reaper whispers in an ear, then i'm finished with triggers
rage up in the streets can finish a *****
A story of hearing about a lot of death in North Minneapolis as a North Minneapolis child.
TréAllen Warner Oct 2015
Listen out for the sounds of the night
When the sky is finally deprived of all light
When I find the most inspiration to fill my page
Detonations of metallic shells tipped with senseless rage
They sound the time of the witching hour
And I lay in bed shaking, distressed and twisting sour

Someone must’ve told them streets were canvases
So they filled them with blood ink like I fill papers with stanzases
I think of all the boys extinguished by the streets
And the gun-toters dominated by their inner beasts
So I preach to thieves before I begin to face a fear of death
So many bodies lie in North Minneapolis, I’m probably next
So the lethal tech fills my dreams and my dreams become nightmares
Tried teaching Smith and Wesson lessons, but there's nobody that might care

So if nobody cares, then that’s reality and I’m gonna have face it
If the streets **** me, I may as well embrace it
I’ll deal with the gang scene better than you, I don’t need breathers
If gun violence don’t matter to you, it don’t matter to me either
Pop a chrome bullet at me, another innocent’s dome
Just do as the others do, you know what they say, “When in Rome”
A poem I originally wrote in the eighth grade. This is me rewriting it entirely off of memory.

— The End —