Burnt Carbon

Boom. Blast.
Urbanization moves fast.
Concrete turns to pavement 
like sand melts to glass.
Bang. Bash.
Machines pumping gas.
The zombie city flourishes
on the working man's back.
The streets are in the buisness
of angel dust and crack-
offices on the block
melt your brain,
pay the tax.
Fire barrels burning in alleyways
like buildings burned
for insurance claims-
overpopulation,
crowded trains-
the city feels its growing pains.
Gun violence
and hard refugees-
a ghetto land
that never sleeps.
Like the fires that rage within the streets-
gang wars disrupting the peace.
The illusion of living free-
counterculture and conformity
rockets, records, coke, and weed-
the burning heart of the 70s.
Black carbon falls as ash-
destroy your city to make some cash-
gangsters with stolen whips to crash-
theives disguised in welfare masks.
Who are we as apeople?
What are we at our core?
Are we the fire in the barrels?
Or the burnt carbon on the floor?
To make it out of the city,
off the streets, off the curb-
to crawl out of the rubble
as a rebel
over sacrifice and dirt-
that's the motto, the message, the montra, the word-
that's the story, the lie, the dream...
The curse.