Born in the county

 I was born in the county and raised in the state.

Twenty-seven times, intentional acts of violence knocked on my door —

tapping my shoulder like a request to dance.

Any given Sunday, gunplay was optional.


We weren’t scared to catch a hot one —

but we were terrified to live.

We weren’t afraid of life sentences,

just afraid of what a free life might mean.


Selling dope to fund our barrio adventures,

stealing cars to leave scars in someone else’s story.

Every tire mark was a signature,

every broken window a statement.


We chased chaos like it owed us something,

numb to the funerals, deaf to the sirens.

It wasn’t survival —

it was surrender dressed up in bravado.


But here I stand,

scars intact, breath still in my chest,

learning that healing is louder than war,

and sometimes the bravest thing

is choosing peace when the streets never did.


I’ve buried brothers who never saw their second chance,

lit candles for homies who became murals and memories.

Some got lost behind bars,

others behind addiction —

some of us just got tired of dying a little every day.


Now I walk softer, but my story still thunders.

I speak for the ones who never made it to reflection.

Not because I’m better —

just because grace hit different when you're ready.


And if this voice can crack the silence

that kept us locked up in our own minds,

then maybe the next kid won’t confuse pain for purpose.

Maybe he’ll find freedom without the cuffs.

Maybe he’ll dance without the tap of violence at his back.

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