There’s a silence in the hood when the youth die
and no one knows how to react when our moms cry.
The pain in her heart is reflected in her stare,
she’s living through her worst nightmare.
We just try to let our words soothe her,
a comforting touch,
a shoulder for her tears is all we got,
though it isn’t much.
The father’s quiet,
staring into space.
He’s not used to showing emotion,
but it’s showing on his face.
What the fuck is he supposed to do?
Let the anger flow through him,
until he physically breaks down?
It’s weighing on him, heavily
and everyone says his baby’s new home is heavenly,
but how does he accept it?
What does he say to the woman who gave birth
to the blessing he should have protected?
There’s a silence in the hood when the youth die.
We used to live to survive; now we just get by.
Any day could be our last, and yet we still try.
Despite death, we celebrate life, with not a dry eye.
There’s a silence in the hood when the youth die, cause
when they’re silencing the youth then the hood dies.
by BK TheRealist