Hard Times

by Scrappy


Life hurts, clothes torn, beat and burned. 
Chaoís never warned. No time to rejoice, just mourn. 
Tried to run the other way, headed right into the storm.

Keep them all at arms length, a need to recuperate. 
Praying to God for the strength. 
Learning how to stand alone, back strong, 
veins pumped acid, to a heart of stone.

No I donít want the lights on, cause then I couldnít think. 
I write, but my mind paints pictures like Leonardo DeVinci. 
The waves hit me, temperature level mixing, clock in me ticking. 
Thereís things nobodyís getting. Looking out the window thinking bout ditchin.

Here we go, on the run again. My thinking is a contrast of color blends. 
Mind thinking over time in the middle of chaos finding the words that rhyme. 
The pressure is on, I explode with a force, like a atom bomb. 
No! I canít stay calm, thoughts thrown off track, 
lady across the road screaming ďI HATE YOU, CAUSE YOUR BLACK! 
I WISH YOU WOULD LEAVE AND NEVER THINK OF COMING BACK!Ē

How am I suppose to react? 
The lies and insults, Iím throwing them back. 
Iím not taking any of that. 
Angry like jumping off a cliff with a bomb and a timer attached to my belt strap. 
Let my voice be my weapon of choice. 
The smell of smoking gun from the firing squad, 
like being hit twice by the same lightning rod.

Pain so heavy I pray to God, Iím mad about it and no itís not okay. 
I just stayed away, I take out the pin, throw a bomb into the windÖ
wait for the explosion and reload again. Nobodyís laughing. 
Mind in conflict, timer wired to a clockÖtickÖtick...under a minute. 
I thought of it, an explosion of torment, 
a dangerous storm I walk through bad climate, I canít rhyme it, 
lost it and Iím trying to find it. 
Words be BLAZIN fire, every page ragin.' 
The only way Iím communicating. 
No Iím not home on a slave ship, shackled in the hull, 
every where I go people curse and spit. 
Still caught in conflict, baby makers, 
thugs, drugs, liquor stores are over crowding.

Mind is dark and clouded. Black man in a clown suit 
marching ahead like a recruit. 
Angry, Thereís no dispute, 
hated my kind are the chosen few.

What does it takeÖfor me to be a bum on the streets, 
get kicked and beat, starving consumed by waves taller than me. 
Take away my thoughts of being free. 
Taking my identity by discriminating, locked in a cell, 
waiting cause you tore up my freedom papers. 
Iím saying it all now, cause I wonít be able to later.

No where to roam walking in a danger zone. 
Barbwire and landmines walking lightly on the thin line. 
Canít relax, these are HARD TIMES.


Hard Times by Scrappy

© Copyright 2003. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.



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