Life as an African American trapped in the hood. Has a grateful tone in it, as though the rhythym of the hood is somewhat good.

Blue Street

This rhythm resonates from the top of my head to the sole of my feet,

The rhythm I call Blue Street.

It reminds me of the hardcore jazz of the streets,

The mentality of a soldier, the roughness of the beat.

The newspaper of a cold world, full of lies,

Yet beautiful, like nature’s butterflies.

The depression of the criminal, trapped in the system,

While the one who remains free faces oppression in his independence.

As street ball is played on the grimy court,

Hustlers busy themselves with their sort.

This is the ghetto, these are the slums,

In the heart of the streets, there resides no love.

What is this rhythm that pulses through the confines of this beat?

The rhythm I call Blue Street.