My mom always said to me,

"It's time to grow up. You aren't a kid,"

but inside of my mind, it goes a little like this:

 

These Brooklyn streets raised me, 

up from two to six feet,

because she would have her fits

about laundry or her powder or the car keys,

and then run off without making dinner

for me, Carl, or Stevie 

and then Jerry from 5th would come stop by,

telling me why Mom couldn't handle

having more than one guy in her life.

 

So I decided to go far away,

as far as I could without a place to stay.

And when I fell asleep, I saw her in dreams,

clawing at my face as she crawled

on both her hands and knees.

 

But I finally arrived outside of the city,

and I have my gang of boys with me 

as we make way down to the bridge

on nights of initiation, 

on nights warmth is all that I wish. 

This is what it's like 

to be a Brooklyn kid. 

 

I met a girl last Saturday night.

She wouldn't tell me her name, 

but it was alright, 

because I could tell by her eyes

reflecting off the dark of the sky

that she liked the way I walked,

and she liked the way I lied.

 

I told her this was my home, 

and this was all I had;

that I would never go back to my mom or my dad.

I was happy where I was, sleeping

under bridges or inside of cars,

because they never told me "no"

no matter who I decided 

I was.