The Dirt

I wrote while I was reflecting on my home town.

Can't say I'm from the streets; at least the streets had sidewalks. See,
I'm from the Dirt--a place where there's no separation between
The street and the asphalt. Lived in what are technically the suburbs
On Poverty standards. Woken up to cows on my front lawn,
While roosters have 6 a.m. banter.

A place where every man is for himself
And rarely looks to help the next man.
Figure the Devil must have wings
Because there's a snake on the lid of my trash can.

The Dirt: A place where, where you're from is what you do
And what you do is who you are. So if I talk a broken English...
I'll father a broken home. I'll stare at broken bottles
That I emptied the night before. I'll spread my broken seed,
And my children will grow up with broken dreams.

Though I find no solace in my scripture because I still read
With broken eyes, I climb. Fixated on cleansing myself;
And simply pray that I be blessed, with knowledge to mix
Dirt and ink into glue.