June Challenge: "Mean Streets" - Page 2

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  1. #11
    The Street With No Name

    Why you act that way
    Why you be so cold
    turn a good thing bad
    yea, ya kill for gold
    don’t get you’re way
    don’t care whose hurt
    gonna get your props
    mama’s bloody skirt

    Mother father’s fear
    babies on the steps
    poppin’ pills shootin’ up
    bangin’ at it’s best
    gotta be so tough
    hot night young dead
    gotta be so cold
    copper to her head

    Everyone dies
    two years old
    shot in his bed
    a story untold
    no blame on you
    for innocent cries
    no blame on you
    for brotherly ties

    You think you’re a winner
    You think you’re smart
    You think you’re a player
    You got no heart
    black, white or purple
    You don’t care
    collateral damage
    your street warfare

    You love to score
    You hate to lose
    You just plain mean
    You just can’t choose
    random plays your maiming game
    eighth grade honors
    not in a gang

    Cut your ties
    cut your life
    money your motive
    power your knife
    devoured by demons
    man’s fear and hate
    bannish love’s grace
    render hell’s gate

  2. #12

  3. #13

    An ugly lovely town

    See beyond, the pristine precinct
    to the not so recent, not so clean
    where men are gleaned from near history
    like a widow's memory, smeared with tears.

    Men with faces steeped in toil
    beneath the soil ripped at the seams
    recompenced by dreams and lies
    with only the pennies upon their eyes to spend.

    And the men from the shadows of the seven hills
    where heaven dared not dwell
    in furnaces from hell, dyed and cast
    from the past to walk the dark.

    And the men of stone who swung a sledge
    drove a wedge to slate the grey
    then up away toward the moored
    where stevedores grasped hooks to grapple.

    And the men chappeled in blessed company
    in harmony with the bell ringing
    softly singing of hell and bones
    in Welsh-wood-tones 'Saspan Bach'

    From upon the seven hills, look down
    to the kindly mean streets of this ugly lovely town.

  4. #14

    Shrines of progress cast long shadows;
    as they soar to the heavens,
    oblivious to the squalor at their feet.
    Their denizens look down on him
    with their noses turned.

    He understands.

    But why would he bother
    to clean up his corner?
    His little filthy fiefdom.

    He’s heard of those that made it;
    They never found their way back.
    Maybe they lost their way,
    Or they never cared to look back.

    Maybe it’s all just a myth.
    Like the one about the rose
    that made it through the concrete.

    Just like all his heros,
    blighted by the streets that made him.
    Their words could have saved him,
    but were used to corrupt his kin;
    when all the voices of justice
    faded into begging whispers.

    He reckons there is more to life,
    away from this decay.
    But his nascent wings were clipped,
    long before he could fly.
    Last edited by writersblock; June 16th, 2018 at 12:03 AM. Reason: formatting

  5. #15

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