Realistic poetry |
Emergency, 911…the hood is going under. You can hear cries of hopelessness out in the streets, with the sound of distant thunder. Ignorance is a plague with biblical proportions, many decline to introspect… their own lives because they are destitute of the power of intellect. Heard thousand of heartrending sermons, yet, still haven't computed the obvious truth. God offers substance for the soul, but some whether try to ingest the very thing that will chip their tooth. Grace is taken for granted, gifts are tricked away and flossed. Children of the lost tend to despise the purpose of the cross. Trying to roll a seven, greasing the pockets of money-grubbing reverends. Platinum Jesus piece around their neck… in their minds, that's their down payment on heaven. One day of church, six nights of fun. So their odds of making it in are six to one. Them young jokers thought they were gangsters until they experienced a menstrual cycle after seeing the spark from the heat, that left their hearts in the street… sorry suckers branded on their forehead and right hand the mark of the beast. Bodies sticking to the pavement, while the others sobbing for their mommas on a gurney. Getting bucked in every phase in their lives…a vain-ridden journey. All open eyes ain't seeing…it's like trying to awake a dope fiend from his nod. And the cute young sisters that were chaste began auctioning off their mildew cod. And they still believe that they are wife- material… but their honeycomb is clap-venereal, and only a sap will clean and eat their chittlins and milk their soggy cereal. Physicality is fragile and their mentality is feeble. And it becomes a tight fight, like trying to penetrate through the eye of a needle. No hocus-pocus, stay focus, as these evil days approach us. While some will turn to the Lord, others will see the light and scatter like roaches. Perhaps, it could be true that some individuals were never meant to be free. Doomed from the womb, then unto the tomb…the product of an enslaved pedigree. |