VETERANS vs YOUTH - part two

Poetry Style

Do the shards of my memories that are the fountain of my nightmares still remain?

The jeers and sneers of the old folk help maintain the strain on my brain as I can't refrain from thinking myself insignificant.

For instance, the same names that tell top tales to tattle-tale talkers tells terrors to Timmy-toms and presents a stage for rage here.

No Sage there…

The ghetto is still gonna be a forgotten place as the space between rich and poor picks up pace along the lines of poverty.


Sincerity then retains no longevity and the traces of ingenuity become all but nonexistent when we are told that rhyming words with nouns and verbs doesn't make you an MC.

They say you got to live for the funk and die for the funk to be dubbed such or else put your pen down.


What happens when the earth that shaped me and the hands that held me turns and insults me?

The shards of those memories pressed between the pages of my mental rolodex belittles my intellect as I sit and reminisce about shattered dreams and battered hopes, scattered means and unwarranted ends. 
Things that destroy not mend, as I live life and take notes sitting high on quotes.


I recall being called for an opportunity to nurture my growth only to realize that I lacked experience to fit into criteria set by older folks whose objectives were financial survival minus qualification perusal.

I didn’t fit the requirements to aspire to heights higher than the ghetto as it seemed to me that greatness was not a privilege, but a right for only the haves who in turn fed the have-nots with oppression or should I say "down-pression".

“Job hunting” is the biggest oxymoron flaunted in the faces of promising youth with fingers too calloused to retake shape as opportunity remains asleep and dexterity disappears in a mist of failure.

Silhouettes of success reappear every time fortune greets us.
However, progress still forces its way through the holds of grown-folks silent rhetoric of combative agendas.

My memories become the fountain of my nightmares as a battle between the Veteran and the Youth rages on.

Nightmares and reality becomes indistinguishable.

My choice and my voice are predetermined by those who are supposed to be paving the way for me whilst holding my hand.

INCOMPLETE