Grit & Grime

Dead soilders crunch under feet
Where stained bricks and alleys meet.
Pass along the paper bag,
Spark up a jack, take a drag.
Dime bags sold from corner stores.
Addicts, dealers, pimps and whores.
Living, dying, day by day.
No time for sleep where I stay.
Daily hustle on the flow,
Torn flyers read, "Just Say No!"
Born to this, I'll never leave.
No way out that I perceive.

About This Poem

Last Few Words: Dead soilders are empty drug vials. A jack is a cigarette.

Review Request Direction: What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?

Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back

Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft