Dear White People: I Feel Like Giving Up

(Verse 1) I was born in a borough where the dreams seem hollowed, Where the nights are beleaguered and the days are borrowed. In the heart of the struggle, where we learn to juggle, Stacking pennies, and power, strength is the subtle. Life’s all 'bout hustle, shell games and muscle, Belters of the block where the blocks always rustle. On this concrete canvas, we ducking from handcuffs, Dodging blue sirens, praying our luck's up. Chorus: We rise from the roots, reaching for the stars, From city street corners to quantum avatars. A day in the life, in the black neighborhood, We preach peace, but the peace never understood. (Verse 2) We exchange dream currency, tilted hats and summer heat, Shadowed by targets, yet we dance offbeat. Colored folk law, dark skin, life’s scheme, Trials and errors, pyramid dreams. Grey clouds hover, silver linings seen, Steel gates synthesize reality from dreams. Diamonds in the rough, polished in strife. Invisible paintings, this is our life. Chorus: We rise from the roots, reaching for the stars, From city street corners to Wall Street’s memoirs. A day in the life, in the black neighborhood, We seek progress, but the process seldom understood. (Bridge) Mothers weave hope like afro braids, In this chess game of life, we the rouge spades. Pass the torch beacon, let it blaze, In the ink black night, through the urban maze. (Verse 3) Pressure creates diamonds, in this melting pot, Painted 'pon our faces, fears we've fought. Tenement dreams, on street corners whispered, In ciphers and six-packs, futures we've pictured. Double entendres, life's cruel poetry, Not promised tomorrow, yet we shape its symmetry. Threading dreams in life's tapestry, In pursuit of silver spoons, we craft our legacy. Chorus: We rise from the roots, reaching for the stars, From street side stoops to sky-scraping bars. A day in the life, in the black neighborhood, We seek justice, but the judgement rarely understood. (End) On these cobbled streets, we bleed our rhymes, In this sublime struggle, clock hands chime. Rising from the rubble, reaching for the divine, Life, it's a hustle, in the black neighborhood time.