Hemingway and s**t...

I'm not trying to be
all Hemingway and s**t
I'm a drop it hood
like my neck of the woods

yeah...

that place I call home
where bullets rest between bones
and words wear the weight of stones
where kids grow hard
learning life behind bars
scrapping in the yard
collecting bruises and body scars
criminal minded and
street wise at an early age
with darting eyes
and mothers afraid

no after school programs
to keep them off the corner
just bullets with their names
and a handful of mourners
to bear witness placing
babies beneath cold clay
under a cloudy day
on some National Holiday.