Where the Guns Go Off
There is no envy
of where we live:
rundown apartment complexes,
dangerous housing projects.
Poorly zoned business districts
whose warehouses cut through our landscape
like the tombstone's of giants,
sitting tagged and vacant
from a boom that never happened.
We are a single community
divided amongst ourselves;
a dozen or so quarter mile barrios.
Each fiercely guarded
by angry, misguided youth.
They bleed to protect something
that’s worth absolutely nothing
for reasons hardly above reproach.
This is the land of concrete and graffiti;
broken knuckles and broken hearts;
the place where flashes of light
break the night and sometimes,
we die.
This is the crazy west side,
the youth wrecker,
the damager of all who dwell.
This is home, where the guns go off.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
