I am from a city of pain,
Where few fathers neglect their daughters.
Broken sons are often slaughtered.
I am from the “All American City”.
A home, somewhat quite bold and witty,
Centers a market house that stocked and sold slaves,
82nd Airborne, salute to the “Home of the Brave”!
History of indigenous cultures steered
And speared by the rear of Cape Fear.
Best interest?
In spring, honeysuckles and dogwoods,
Plant fresh scent of precious moments of my childhood.

I am little gardenia in queue,
Raised on Gardenia Avenue.
Streets over, eyes squint and zoom
Before I enter my pink and white bedroom,
Drugs sold and women occasionally auction their souls.
"Don’t leave without permission and be careful", Momma always told.

 I am a pinched carat straight out of coal,
In between hidden smiles and tortured souls,
That barely diffuse “Thank You”---
For the city’s daily troubles and midnight blues.

I am from a legacy of struggle.
Where doubt politely invite life to crumble,
Generations of corruption and abuse,
Spirits high off booze and drug residue,
Slight education and lack of motivation,
Extreme colorism and degradation,
Family values shredded by grudges
And overdue monetary value.
Here, the birthplace of my genome,
Polishing up to shine for the city I call home.





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