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They call it a place
where dead rats, dead cats, and people
are treated equally.
They call it a place
where muggings and murders
are commonplace happenings.
They call it a place
where graffiti dwells on walls and buildings
done by the same spray paint
that is missing from the corner store.
They call it a place
where the strong odor of garbage
piled high upon the streets
is considered one of the important factors
that make this place what it is.
They call it a place
where not many work
in a place where many are known to be illiterate.
They call it a place
where a small plate of collard greens
makes the perfect Sunday dinner.
They call it a place
where husbands abandon their wives
wives abandon their children
and children abandon their dreams.
They call it a place
where the Saturday activities
are body confrontations and "hangin' out."
They call it a place
where the natural thing to do
is to get into trouble.
This place is easy to get in
but once in
people seldom get out.
This is a place
where the everyday task
is to stay alive.
They call this place the ghetto
the crowded, dirty ghetto.
People call it their home.
- Title: Through Their Eyes
- Artist: Mikster P
- Description: I made this poem as a memento for people who have died in Richmond and Oakland.
- Date: 06/16/2009
- Tags: through their eyes
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