lives lived and half-lived

Driving through the northside, cruising up High Street,
Past Cristo Rey Community Center, past the party store that sells cigarettes to minors,
Past another store with a roadside barbeque,
The visible signs of poverty struck me.
I had acted as if it was some sort of Badge of Honor,
Growing up a block from Eight Mile, two blocks from Mound Rd.
Under the shadows of the smokestacks from auto and steel plants,
A few miles up the road from gleaming towers of the Renaissance Center.
I knew we were poor then, but poverty was the norm
And it built character and it somehow gave us substance.
That was just another lie I told myself to cover up the truth.
My eyes are open now, and I see this tired broken down neighborhood for what it is.
Sagging roofs, broken windows and weather-beaten siding,
Can no longer hide the quiet desperation of those who live within.
Buckling sidewalks and garbage-strewn and weed-filled yards line the street,
Hinting at the chaotic lives lived and half-lived by the occupants.
I know I am delusional, just projecting my own thoughts and fears
Upon the outside world as my beater bounces down the pothole-filled street.
I hated being from where I was from, wanted a better life, a better way.
Expected to find something bigger and better eventually,
But the choices I made, the crosses that I chose to bear,
Anchor me to this place and time with no hope of escape.