It must be the music

Caught up in the struggle

Began in the streets

The ghetto cultures

Highs and lows

Elements of a struggle

Of living black and free

Dream variations

It’s all but a dream.

We would sing Gladys Knight songs

All night long, our brush used as a

Microphone. Never knew life would

Be like this, take a bullet for you,

Caught up in the system. You set up

The rules.

Used to read Jet magazine

Admire the beauty of the week.

Looked up the top ten hits

Of the bestselling song list.

Wanting to be a model, staring at

Upbeat fashion in Ebony magazine.

Saying the same things, you say

You swore back in the day

That we would pave the way some day.

That we would be different, the things

That come our way. A sister would learn

To earn her keep making it on her own

Not dependent on any man, doing the

Best she can.

 

Back in the day we would escape the heat

We admired the lessons taught from the wars

Fought, caught up in the struggle, we put God

First in church. As friends, we were invisible

To who we were in society, with our dreams of

Equality.

Imagine no more public housing

No more street laundering

No more war boundaries

No more wall boundaries

No more biased colors, biased

Race, biased sins, where we became a

Race of men, next to kin of women

Creators of sisters of daughters who

Suffered, struggled and sacrificed

Purpose to make a difference.

In the streets where boys become men

Played basketball, stick ball and chased

After dreams. Where men learned to

Get along and survive the fierce streets

Of drive byes, watching brothers die.

For what reason?

The color of the skin is where it all

Began. Colors, races, genders public

Defenders being biased making a

Difference. Orientation, designation,

Regeneration, desegregation,

Disorientation defines us. As we are

What we be like as humans living

Out a dream.

To be at peace, we define our race

By the walls we create and the laws

Of faith.

In the river of life, we taste the water

Bitter and cold, with the taste of salt.

We are baptized in the salty water to be

Cleansed of sin that we live in.

A child’s imagination begins with a dream.

Playing with toy trucks, bottles and dirt,

Easily entertained with cartoon heroes,

And playing the drums.

Girls make up their own dreams of having

Families by playing with dolls, clapping hands

Keeping rhythm, double ditching to the tune,

And roller skating in the afternoon.

It is seminal to think how a young kid gets

Raped in their sleep, and all her dreams

Of being someone are taken away by

The one she loved.

In the ghetto, hard life and hard times

If enough to get you by. Wishful thinking

Becomes a daily lie.

Old drug addicts hanging out on street

Corners. Old drunk men, lost in dreams

Living in trash cans with broken bottles

Thrown at me.

 

Old hustlers, the pan handlers to make

Ends meet, selling stolen things

From old yard sales and swap meets

In barber shops and beauty salons

On the streets.

Old gang bangers, clocked time, dropping

Dominoes bones, playing cards, gambling

Pay check away for a good price.

Good times,

These, all good times

Leave your worries behind

These, all good times

Fly girls loosed in the clubs

Hair did, nails done

Hoping they catch someone.

Boys chasing girls, dressed to the T

And clean, dressing classy like

Essence magazine.

It’s in the music, playing loud

It’s all good in the hood

It’s in the music, good music

It’s never what it seems to be

It’s in the music, good music

It’s all but a dream