I took to these streets like a cucaracha takes to light,
I retreated into hiding and hiding was my fight.
It’s hard to be hidden when you standout,
It’s living life angry with a silent shout.
You can’t show weakness, suffering, or pain
And you fight like hell not to place blame.
Because excuses only lead to bad decisions
Of you living a life of drugs and fatal illusions.
But when you keep the blame and responsibility
You become a man who takes advantage of opportunity.
“No hay mal que por bien no venga”
And I live by that, “con la pata larga”.
I’m sure the folks that know me now wouldn’t even believe my “how”.
I’m sure they would assume I was cut from fine cloth
Never understanding or knowing these streets I’ve fought off.
These streets may have made me, but they did not enslave me.
I ran and I ran until I reached a freer land.
Beaten and bullied, starved and shunned, still I stand.
So when you look at me know that these streets made this man.