17100
I don't know how to start this piece but f*€k it, let's begin,
you opened up your hallways' arms and surely let me in,
there'd be no me without you so I know it's h3lla right,
I dream about you still because I love you Stella Wright.
From outside you were nothing but "The Projects" to some folks,
the place where everybody knew to come and get some coke,
or better yet some smoke and maybe still request some dope,
the cash was flowing heavy yet no one invested hope.
Green Acres was across the street; that big @ss sliding board,
no cushion caught our fall so just what were we sliding for?
I got my share of battle scars and they were made for me,
but I had refuge as I wandered into 83,
right on the Ave. of Waverly; I'd walk your hallowed stairs,
right on up to the 3rd floor with a blank and hollow stare,
then bust a left and right by the incinerator door,
apartment 3D stood; your buildings all were made for poor,
and lower class of Blacks folks but my grandma's house was rich,
it kept me from the streets I'm talkin' straight up out the mix,
Victoria McKie was not the one to play no games,
she let her grandson roam and it became the place for James,
to have a big adventure in a closet full of stuff,
Granddaddy might be sleeping; make some noise he'll call your bluff,
and then go pull encyclopedias from off the shelf,
James didn't need a playmate 'cause the boy was lost in self.
The mornings smelled of scrambled eggs; I love to reminisce,
mouth watering aromas of the butter in the grits,
as long as I there it really wasn't much to miss,
my grandma died when I was nine; I haven't felt much since.
I sit sometimes and let my mind produce the hurting tears,
from memories so strong and dating well past thirty years,
I guarantee they'll carry me until the day I die,
those 80s days in Stella Wright; for now I say goodbye.
©2017
The Cunning Linguist
