Hardwood Poem by james johnson

The kids are playin,
while the gangstas are slayin
all the young men that claim,
they don't even bang
and they're complainin
can't even walk down the streets,
without having some heat
pushed in their face
and so they taste
the fear the hood brings,
wearing gun shells
for necklaces and pinky rings
i grew up down the street
from some projects
where they rob less
but shoot more
and call it progress
it sucks less
when ya boy has a plan
with some fans
to make sure he doesn't get slammed
by the man, hot damn
true words that are spoken
don't wear the wrong color
or your a** will be smokin
don't get discouraged, my ni**a
you can flourish
just make sure it's for you
cuz the hood ain't for tourists
the moral is boredom kills
so upgrade your skills
for when stuff gets real
got people fighting for food
cuz they can't find a meal
the hood wants to
keep you, beat you, delete you
better feed your cerebral
don't fall for the evil
cuz he will, make sure
you don't grow up to be
what you need to succeed
and feed your seed
don't fall for the greed
or OD smokin loud bags of weed
heed all of these warnings
cuz the mornings
are boring, when you're
just wasting away
instead look forward
into seizing the day
all chicks gotta leave the nest
its time for you to puff out your chest
and express how you're blessed
and how you're different from the rest
don't settle for less
or you'll end up depressed
and in the same stress
you wish your parents
complained less, but its all good
cuz its our hood that made us hardwood