Creativity641

I think I live for the silent and still —

The friends you made against your will.

The evening light,

The morning mist,

The impossible odds that you even exist.

They call it “the hood.”

We call it family.

They call it “ghetto.”

We call it culture.

It’s loud — but it’s home.

The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.

crying over a simple email 

the lasts build a lump in my throat 

last time beaming onstage 

signing yearbooks 

wearing a stiff blue skirt 

They gather in shadow beyond the monuments, 
no longer chiseled names, but men again, 
haunted by what they see, 
each bearing the weight of his vision now worn. 

 

No matter how far I run

how loud I scream

how hard I try

I'm never fast enough

never loud enough

never good enough.

Because even if I am,

I'm not.

Can you hear the roar of the crowd? 

The thousands of people, 

Kids, teens, adults and seniors. 

All screaming at the corrupt administration that we call a government. 

We will not be silenced.