by Jeffry Scott Hansen
Tuesday, April 02, 2002
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Drug dealers in Detroit.
City Streets from mornin’ to night,
Crack in your head, your body tries to fight,
When you go to your people to get the point,
On every corner of your street, someone’s smokin’ a joint.
The street is white, but it’s not snow,
You can buy it everywhere, anywhere you go,
Punks push it to little kids, when you start to try it, you’ll wish you never did.
Gold on neck, Nikes on feet, you got your boys on your side walkin’ down the street.
They’re your crew, no one can beat, you’re a leader, you feel real sweet.
You walk to a house, it’s a real dump, rats on the porch, where little things go bump,
You walk to a room where the walls are red, you look at the bed, your mom and dad are dead.
Your mind is spinning, you turn around, the boys who were with you can’t be found.
They killed your dog, you raised him from a pup, you just realized, you’ve been set up.
You reach for your pocket, but they’ve got your gun, you wonder to the world “Why did my boys run?”
Up the drive comes a Cadillac, you run for your life but still get shot in the back.
You fall to the ground, blood is everywhere, you hope to God that this is a nightmare.
“God what did I do? Mind is going black so I pray to you, I’ve been shot, so I cannot run,I got five holes in my back, musta been a shotgun.”
You see your life right before your eyes, all your triumphs and defeats to be one of the guys.
Death is near, you can almost taste, like your life has been empty, a terrible waste.
You’ve hurt many people, what else was there to do? Now you know what it’s like 'cause now it’s you.
You were nothin’ but a punk to them you didnt' play the game,
you might have hustled in the beginning, but now it’s all in vain.
You thought they cared, they gave you gold and clothes,
But when you owe them money, your nothin’ but a Ho’.
You owe these boys money, now you owe no more,
these friends killed your brother, made your sister a whore.
Where are you now, your lying on your back, gone is your life,
What did you expect?
You should have listened to your family, what everyone said, now because of you, they’re all dead.
As the sirens fade into the night, crack plagues the city, and deaths a rite.
On corners, in alleys, in the cars of thugs, death has a name, and that name is drugs.
Dedicated to Johnny "Ace" Smith, Detroit Kronk Boxing promoter who was gunned down in front of Page One Bar in Detroit on March 10th 1989. This poem was written two weeks before his murder.
Copyright Jeffry Scott Hansen 1989
For reprint permissions contact the author at jeffhansen972atyahoo.com
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|Reviewed by Charlotte Spurrill
|Reviewed by Cathy Montgomery (Reader)
|Reviewed by Gregory Sonn (Reader)
I welcome you to the den also. This is a very moving piece. I grew up in N.Y.C. So I hear what you're saying. Then moved to phoenix and the inner city is the inner city no matter where you go. Good honest write.
|Reviewed by E T Waldron
|This is a fantastic realistic look at what drugs do to our lives. Thank you for pulling no punches...great work!|
|Reviewed by Trixie Love
First of all, I would like to say,
welcome to the den..It is
home to many of us...
Now for your poem,
It is fantastic...
What is sad about it,
is that things as such
do take place in reality.
Looking forward to more
of your work...