Waiting to be heard you never will be. This is dedicated to the Windy City.

Ill I know it is.

Seeking light in darkness.

Vacant playgrounds, swings screech in the wind, empty again.

Pop, pop, pop!

The fire’s out, replaced with firearms.

Cardinals nest in the park no song in their hearts.

Black and brown beating each other black and blue,

brainwashing me and you.

The screams of inevitable sirens.

To adapt is to stay strapped.

No one loved or hugged him.

He turned to thuggin.

Dubs and clubs.

Drugs and thugs.

Locked in and left out.

Eyes wide open but many still asleep.

Nothing in this world is fair.

The wind off the water turned neighborhoods cold.

Will hate and violence ever grow weak and old?

Old enough to live, too young to die.

The murder. The Burial. Then life resumes.

The only thing affordable is free doom.

Mother’s cry, gone too soon.

Tears in the frozen rain.

Aimless violence, unspeakable and senseless.

What will our legacy state?

What happened to the revolution?

Ill I know it is.

All this hate and crime.

What will be left behind?

What will be left?

What will be?

What will?



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