Features

My roots run crimson when I look back to the past,

My future burns bright like a bomb and its blast.

I look back.

The Bronx is burning.

Charring.

Roasting.

The streets are slurring, I’m unsure of my safety but time keeps turning.

Flash forward.

A boy is born,

Told that he mattered.

17 years later, all that’s left has been shattered.

It’s no matter, no brown skin off their teeth.

Another waste of a soul off the mean streets.

Flash forward.

But it seems I've pressed repeat.

Time shifts here, the patterns don’t miss a beat.

Beaten.

Battered.

Broken.

I find myself chokin’ on truth.

We’ve been left behind. 

But I still fight with nail and tooth.

Forced to mature,

robbed of my youth.

I’ve been rattling my brain

Dealin’ with this generational pain

caused by Moses.

Built the parks, but destroyed our foundation

The perfect symbol of what’s wrong with this nation.

Those redlines cut deep.

Crimson as the blood that keeps my heart bumpin’ on beat.

I press repeat.

But the sound stops playing.

The speakers died and the picture’s faded.

Time keeps flowin’ but we.

We’ve gone jaded. 

Allen Morales was a second-year animation major at the School of Visual Arts when he submitted this piece for consideration. "Now I’m just another New Yorker with a chip on his shoulder and a smile on his face," he says. "And if I can keep moving forward, you can, too."