Thinking about the days I use to dream
Only able to afford quarter juices & welfare ice cream
Growing up seeing brothers in gangs, children begging for change and boys tryna spit game
Game...game was life... mothers giving there daughters up for a sacrifice....
Hardtimes meant using a gang as a protection..as a long lifeless connection...no food to eat either..happiness wasnt even thought about to a optimistic reciever...and the pastor didnt even look to god for a strength reliever...and a white woman talkiin about gettin u out the hood...u couldnt believe her..children hustling at the age of six...and families lying to welfare recipients
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem