by Darrell Collins

I was born in Compton, way, back in 1960.

I've seen the Watts riots emcompass the city.

I saw the skyline ablaze right from Grandma's house.

The steps of Jordan High was just a couple of blocks.

My mother promised that if I ever got gang-related,

She'd cut my throat in my sleep with a straight razor.

And, in 1974, I ended up in the "Crescent City."

What I brought from L.A. was embedded in me.

It was nothing but my magma, spewing all out.

Showing my new neighbors just what I'm about.

I'm from the streets of Hell, and not afraid to die.

I'm the soldier who has mastered how to stay alive.

It is only my magma.  Ready to singe and burn.

It is validation of what I had to learn.

Don't let the smoothe taste fool you.  That wouldn't be wise.

Because, I don't have a problem in taking many lives.

Magma by Darrell Collins

© Copyright 2011. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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