I am not a rhymer.
In this, I might stammer.
Rhyme is a concatenation of success.
In the hood, I have no access
To the ingredients of better living.
And I long for my Thanksgiving.
They cannot feel it
When they come to visit.
They have shock absorber,
My deficient milieu cannot move them.
They like my smile, my pain absorber.
It conceals what they don’t want to see.
To them, nothing rhymes
My laziness and ambition don’t add up.
To me, nothing rhymes
My hustle and success don’t add up.
In the hood, nothing does
Until some opportunity comes knocking at our doors.
This poor attempt at nursery rhymes can make them see.
Rhyme is harmony, hood is chaos
And poverty is not tranquillity.
I can be a rhymer, see.
I want to rhyme, I want serenity.
Give me access and see.