The Ghetto Poet

A guest I have been in this migrant's country for years five,

And I have come to learn what it means here to be alive.

Walked through war torn blocks, yet no war was there to be seen.

Looked at crumbling, broken old haunted houses, yet families lived within.

Spoken to children with the minds of adults, grim talk those were,

And spoken have I with grown men, with the minds of infants, I swear.

In the midst of such utter chaos still lies a morsel of hope, and a beauty in sight,

As one might observe if they look upon the city in dawning twilights.

No words of mine can convey the horrors of it, nor can it portray that speck of good that lingers,

But the chronicler will still walk on these treacherous roads, under the moniker of the Ghetto Poet.

What do I write about, and what do I write for? What is the meaning of my misery?

Maybe it is about the stories of folks, capturing a glimpse of the future's history.

Decay all around, more on the minds of its people than on the buildings they reside,

And a sickness lies over all, the young scarred for life and the old biding their time.

Yet, as I walk longer miles, I see the presence of magnificence, an honest glee,

There is life, laughter, and a vicious fight to be unchained and set free.

There are tales here, tales of love among friends, among kin, among neighbors, and even among strangers.

Even as I look at the cold and desolate wildland before, I see that spark of humanity, that makes me believe in it in spite of all its dangers.

No words of mine can really convey the horrors of it, nor can it portray that speck of good that lingers,

But the chronicler will still walk on these treacherous roads, under the moniker of the Ghetto Poet.

I have walked through the ill streets of Philly and Camden,

As I have walk through the windy Chicago and Detroit, Michigan.

My eyes have wandered through Boston, all the way to Baltimore city,

As they have from Miami to San Antonio, Texas and the Sin city.

Many more miles I have traversed, and many more I will,

Just as my eyes see and my ears hear, my hands will write for them.

The pen is mightier than the sword, and my words shall prove it,

And for freedom and happiness is this fight, and a righteous one it is.

No words of mine can really convey the horrors of it, nor can it portray that speck of good that lingers but I will try,

As the chronicler will still walk on these treacherous roads, under the moniker of the Ghetto Poet.