The Real Ghetto

It is funny how now I am living in what I use to think was cool. I was happy as hell waking up every day and walking to school. They use to tell me to count my blessings every day. However, I knew eventually that things would change. It is not as if I wanted to be in this predicament, where people dying because they are a blood or crip, or in the wrong place at the wrong time. A lot of places I walk I see dried blood on the way to the store, park, gas station, even a friend’s house. Drug dealing is always there and it aint fair. I use to dream I would never get here, to the place that makes it hard for you to get out. When you realize you selling rocks at your front door, they you know you have came too far. A drug dealer knocked up my best friend when she was sixteen. Now he left her nowhere to be found. On welfare at a young age is not she imagined her life to turn out to be. Some dude robbed my homeboy and I swear that if he had had a knife, he would have died. Nevertheless, that strife happens to us in this life. A nigga is not defined by color or age, but by the way, he lives each day.