Grew up, Wes Moore in thy city in which few rarely made it out,
Little knowingly, of roots, and thy background,
Knowing not, and absence of thy father, thou walked out,
Led by his life, thy wrong intentions is what thy found.
Operating, unknowingly, as a boy, to be thy man,
Reaching toward, thou older peers for father figure and guidance,
Being thou statistic whereof wasn't thy plan,
Inevitable in thy fate to find his destiny, some had to do with thou province.
Selling herbs, knowingly, became the normal when thy moved,
On thy street, crackheads whereof formed the norm,
Interactions usward the streets showed,
A form, of thy statistic for a black man would be form.
Growing up in thy similar areas in which thou contained similar circumstances,
Shows only that outcomes only depend on how thy one chooses to dances.
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