Poemas Urbanos-Urban Poetry

South of the stars, past the Boulevard’s shine,
Lies a world where the sun don’t always feel fine.
Chain-link halos crown streetlight poles,
Guarding cracked roads and battered souls.

Graffiti scriptures on alleyway walls,
Tales of the fallen, memorial calls.
Helicopters hover like angry gods,
While kids ride bikes through gang-tagged facades.

Mama prays hard in a one-room flat,
Cousin’s doing time, still texting back.
Rent’s past due, but the beats still play—
We dance in the dark to push pain away.

LAPD rolls slow, hands stay tense,
Trust is a ghost behind every fence.
Corner stores sell more than snacks,
A dollar short, the struggle stacks.

But there’s gold in the grit if you know where to look—
In the barber’s laugh, in the food Mama cooked.
In the voice of a girl with a mic and a dream,
Spitting truths too raw for the mainstream.

Palms still sway over streets that bleed,
Even paradise has mouths to feed.
From Crenshaw to Watts, the stories burn,
Each block a page, each scar we earn.

This ain’t no movie, no glossy frame,
It’s survival art — no shame in the name.
Concrete angels with wings of ash,
Flying low, but built to last.