Baltimore Blues & Gold
By Manya’e Crockett
They call us Charm City,
But the cracks in the pavement tell a
Different story.
Row homes lean like old men, tired but standing,
Windows boarded like closed mouths,
Secrets sealed in chipped paint and rust.
Sirens sing lullabies at midnight,
Blue and Red flashing against the brick,
While Mothers wait by windows,
Counting seconds between gunshots and silence,
Between prayers and another name on the news.
They say we’re broken,
But they don’t see the gold beneath the rubble—
The artist painting murals of lost voices,
Kids dribbling hope on cracked courts,
Old heads on front stoops telling stories
Of a city that fights and never folds.
We march in the streets, fists high, names on our tongues like war cries—
Freddie, Korryn, Tyrone, Dante—
Echoes bouncing off city hall, where promises fall like autumn leaves,
Swept away before they changed color.
But We are more than headlines and crime rates,
More than boarded homes and siren songs.
We are the poets, the hustlers, the dreamers.
The hands that build, the voices that won’t break.
Charm City ain’t just a name—
It’s a heartbeat, a fight, a fire.
And we ain’t done burning yet.
We rise like smoke from the ashes, like streetlights flickering at dusk,
refusing to dim, refusing to die.
This City is more than its wounds—it is the roar of a people unbroken.
Baltimore is not just where we live—it's where we rise.