Barrelhouse
At home in the streets 94-08
Been high
For a
couple of years
Every morning
For breakfast
Drink a couple of beers
To drown down
Some pills
We said
"F.... your fears"
Everybody we know
Living closer
To where
No game
No gain
Act like
We got
No brain
Blame The cane
And all the drama
It brings
guns sing
Mommas screams
Nothing is seen
suppling Fiends
Til the next dope came
Results the same
Who want to
Be a bitch
And complain
Don't nobody care
Ain't no Umpire here
To make niguhs
Play fair
So your home base
The Wrong place
For you to try
And roam safe
Wake up to
A gun in yo face
Open case
Closed casket
To few its tragic
Everybody else laugh
At it
And say
" It shoulda been happened ! "
The price you pay
For relaxing
About the Creator
Abasa Aziz ibn Horace
Through his art, Harrell strives to dismantle the stereotypes that white North American media has placed on the Black individual and instead highlight Black culture and identity through Black people’s perspectives.
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Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford4 days ago in Fiction
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