Inner City Blues
I walked through the war zone with my head bowed down eyes fixated on the solid
black ground,
I dare not lookup not wanting to connect with their eyes nor their minds, because
the contact from their weed smoke makes me feel high
Instead of birds, bullets fly
At night I listen to crack addicts as they moan and cry
Piss on the elevators, Vomit on the stairs
Complaining about the conditions but no one seems to care
Writing on the walls, and broken fences too
But they demand their pay when rent is due
I think I am feeling kind of sick might just be the flu
No sense in going to the doctor, because there is no cure for the inner-city blues...
Copyright © Chrysanthea Mobley | Year Posted 2011
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