This is the mother that sells her food stamps for diaper money.
This is the grandmother that puts her coin purse in her bra, so they won’t take it from me.
This is griss griss, grave dirt, and bullet shells.
This is the young lady sneaking out the window headed to the hotel, a bombshell, but stupidity is a belief.
This is the young man throwing a smoking gun into the water but refusing to go to the altar,
The young lady that was so blessed to survive the worst, but still carries a razorblade in her purse,
The teen that sold his last bag to an undercover cop, the man that tilts his liquor to the sky until he’s had the last drop,
The doper, the junkie, the fiend,
The girl that’s been pimped out since she was 15,
This is 20 years of street cred, now laying in a wet grave bed,
This is praying every night for things other than your daily bread,
This is not trusting your friends,
But telling yourself that it’s all in your head,
This is the equivalent of drinking a glass of common sense,
This is what you get when you beat life with clenched fists,
This is blood milk,
You need this.
See all poetry for Boderic Komolafe #01989148