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Tales from a Killa, a reflection on my father’s life, and the lives of many Black men who move through a world that was never built for their survival. I wrote this poem to show how criminalization isn’t something that begins with a single choice, but with generations of systemic neglect, blocked opportunities, and environments shaped by poverty and surveillance. The poem looks at the ways this country forces Black men into narrow paths, where the streets become not a desire, but a means of staying alive.
In telling my father’s story, I’m also acknowledging a larger truth: that many of our fathers, brothers, uncles, and friends are not “products of the streets” by nature, but by the design of a society that limits their access to education, safe communities, stable income, and pathways to dignity. This poem serves as both remembrance and resistance. By naming his struggles, I reclaim his humanity, his complexity, and his survival as something worthy of understanding , rather than blatant judgment. Through my writing, I aim to challenge the narratives that criminalize Black life and to tell the stories that continue to be overlooked, misunderstood, or silenced.
Tales from A Killa
Mama burned sage, said them spirits been heavy
My cousin hit a lick, now he locked, no celly
Pops kept the strap by the couch, it was ready
Preacher kept talkin’, but that word ain’t help me
Grew up off Mission, I used slide through that dust
Boys like me tote glocks, we never trust
Smile on my face, but it’s pain in my guts
Cops hit the block, now we all gettin’ rushed
I gotta move smart, can’t fold under pressure
If I ever go, tell my son I never let up
Learned more game from my uncles than professors
Never had peace, just a blunt and a dresser
Heard they switch sides when that bag got thinner
I been through shit that’ll break grown men
Lookin’ for a light in this world full of sin
Ten toes down, I don’t fold, I don’t bend
My Auntie lost her son,she cried loud at the service
That Judge gave the shooter fifteen with no purpose
My Mama still prayin’, but she look real nervous
Them streets got a hold, and that grip feel cursive
Got some shit on my chest that I can’t let breathe
Used to skip class just to plot with them thieves
Thought we’d be rich, now they all under leaves
Swear this life don’t love, it just takes and it creeps
They don’t give a fuck ‘bout the pain we all carry
Smile when we die, then forget where we buried
Still pour drank for the ones we lost heavy
Love ain’t last, but the trauma don’t vary
Raised off greens, white tees, and Dickies
Hope feels fake when you broke bi-weekly
Homies told me, “Chill,” but I grind, I don’t sleep
Life’s too cold, I don’t cry, I let this gun release
Tales of from the Killa I used to be
Now my life is behind them bars my dad used to see
Repeat, Repeat
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