Weather worn brick or rusty chainlink, all the lawns
were weeds and the green faded. Another dog barks
and soon screams the baby. The only white fences
here are in a heart grown heavy. For they lost their spark
when the dream went dark and I ain't never kicked a pug
when it ran for my leg.
But you know I weren't fittin
to be alone on that pavement.
Cuz the beer and the gas was all
they can swallow, when the sugar
killed their liver and they can't afford
a bottle of the juice from the sow
sold by the biggest pig of all.
Allowed by the scam of the house
deader than bone. Cuz Banting sold
a cure for a single working dollar,
and that dollar's worked harder
than a poor man's father.
While the next generation can't afford
a home and TV sets polish regret
with the nightly drama.
But I ain't been the one that had to walk
through that door. My complex
a government annex of flea filled floors.
And every cent they spent made a condo
build to creak so that every lousy flower
was cut down to concrete.
Still we just like them wasting
hours; getting flabby by our habits
cause the static went with HD
but the garbage in our head
was inherited for free.
So there weren't nothing special about living
behind a gate cept there were fewer of us
here to spread around the hate. Every scam
was still a lure we were sure to bring salvation.
With no church we knew hurt
was our final destination.
And I ain't never asked nobody to assist. The rackets from their boss
got them blind to a grift. Cuz every fuck with plastic got a smile
on their dollars. It's in our pocket now but they the ones that make it holla.
make it holla
make it holla
make it holla
We scream
from the dream
they painted on our brains
and the scene
ain't complete
until we're dancing on TV.
on daddy reveals when the cheater cries
we dancing
on the news when the crime rise
we dancing
at takeover when tires fry
we dancing
at mass when the children die
we shaking
cuz we ain't gonna take it all
and they be sellin our stylin
when our convictions fall
YOU ARE READING
Original Poems 2024
PoetrySometimes my trauma works its way into my work. Sometimes I'm writing a joke. I'll try to signal when I think a piece might be particularly difficult, but I'm not a great judge of that. My work within will be unfocused. Critiques are welcome.
