The Streets

There’s a rhythm that haunts me. Ssssssssssssouth Siiiiiiide, Represent, And die. I hate the color blue, I hate the color red. My eyes are blue, My blood is red. I hate myself. “Keep a look out”, Call if you need me… The bullet that passed between a child’s eyes, As he walked with me to school… His blood pooled around my feet The knife that took another’s life, Before he could call for a ride home… His blood pooled inside my heart I’ve seen so many… Raids, Moments of stillness And fear. Close my eyes tightly, I have so many nightmares. Screaming for a family that was never there. Failing in a system, Where I am a number, Never a person. “Silly naïve little bitch!” Scars on my body, Bruises covering my arms, Broken bones, Crushed lungs- Crying for myself, And praying for something… …I never learned the word… As I lay upon ashes, Starring at scattered dreams across the darkness, With my blue eyes. Even if I am lonely, We are all so lonely Waiting for, A strong, yet tender hand to hold onto mine… When I am no longer in need of soothing… No longer lonely… A time when a child will walk with no fear, No bullets between eyes. A time when the streets when represent, Do not murder us themselves. We are not just statistics. The streets play a rhythm that’s haunting, Chorused with screams, And bullets, Before silence.