Ghetto Dweller

A free-verse poem, experimenting with something 'edgy'.

I was born the third child
to a teenage mother.
Never knew my “baby daddy”.
Grew up poor, hungry a lot,
scared, too. Life be hard.
Dropped out of school at fifteen
‘cause school is for losers.
Wasn’t learning nothing no way.
Besides, easy money on the street –
if you man enough to take it,
and I was man enough!
Shot my first fool at sixteen.
Law didn’t scare me none.
White man’s rules don’t have
much to do with ghetto life.
Went to prison, learnt all I know
'bout doing crimes.
Got out, joined a gang –
a man got to belong,
got to have someone to count on.
We had it all for a while –
our territory to sell our drugs,
to steal what we wanted,
plenty of money coming in,
cars, bling, clothes, whores…
I wasn’t ‘fraid of nothing or nobody.
And nobody talked down to me.
Many a rich, educated man pissed
his Armani pants when I shoved
a gun in his face and took his money.
I had power. I sure strutted my stuff…
right up ‘til I got shot in a drive-by.
Died right there in the street, with my
mama wailing her heart out.
Dead at age twenty-two.
What you gonna do?
‘Aint no way to break the ghetto cycle.
Just ‘aint no way.


Please check out my ten books:
http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0