Dirty Money: In the Hands of Broth(er)s — A Poem

Here’s a poem about the way I grew up, where I am now, and my thoughts about the transition. Hope you like it.

Prosperity

Can’t wipe away

The graffiti on my soul

Painted in mother’s tears

And the blood of brothas

Who passed for their brothas

Or at the hands of them

Cuz on the block

Were thugs

Pushers

And

Prostitutes

Who

Couldn’t shake the dirt off

The dollar bills

That flowed like rivers

Through the gutters

In the projects.

But we popped bottles

Brushing dirt off our shoulders

In parties we lost ourselves in

Veiling our memories in the smoke

Bluntly

Trying to forget

The way we grew

Up

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