Poetry Thursday - Where Can I Be Safe

Where can I be safe?
On ashen grimy streets
Air ripped and torn
By angry leaden bees
That rend my brothers--
Cut them down like wood.

Or on the inside?
Screaming metal womb
Ten by six with bars
To lock me down like
Mama's steely arms--
Too young for pride.

Black inmates are dying at a rate 57 percent lower than that of the overall black population.


Nice work Kvatch!

What does that say about our country, my god
Since, unnecessary deaths occurre by the tens of thousands in hospitals and the blacks survive better inside than outside of the Big House, one might draw the conclution that the sick, regardless of the race, should stay out of hospitals and all the blacks should be incarcerated. :)
Move over Ferlinghetti. And here I lumbered myself with rhyming couplets :(
Goes to show what regular food and health care can do for a population.
Thanks Greame, Cartledge. When I'm not writing limericks and humerous couplets, this is how most of my more serious verse sounds. I was once told that a lot of my stuff sounds like Beat Era poetry. I take that as quite a compliment.

Pekka...now there's an example of hyperbole if ever I saw one.

Deb...not to mention lack of bullets flying around one's neighborhood.
Tight, bro. Is very good.

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