Edit — Midnight Pilgrim

They say God don’t walk these streets,
but I’ve seen Him —
hooded up, hoodie torn,
sneakers dirty but spirit clean,
blessing the block with broken dreams.
These corners know more prayers
than the churches do.
Concrete prophets preaching with cracked shoes,
mamas lighting candles in plastic cups,
hoping their sons come home unbruised.
Every alley got its own psalm,
every bullet its own amen.
Some of us baptized in liquor,
some in loss,
but we all learned to pray
through the smoke of what we’ve lost.
The streets wrote their gospel
in chalk outlines and cigarette ash,
and I—
I’m just the messenger with a mic,
spitting verses from the Book of Broke & Brave.
See, pain don’t need translation here.
It got its own slang.
Hope sells cheap,
but everybody’s still hustling for peace.
We got preachers in Jordans,
saints in hoodies,
angels with records,
and sinners with wisdom the system can’t study.
I seen halos flicker under streetlights,
heard psalms in the sirens at midnight.
If redemption had a sound,
it would be a freestyle with no beat,
just a man confessing
before the city that raised and scarred him equally.
So when I speak, don’t call it rap.
Call it scripture rewritten in real time.
This is Genesis with graffiti.
Revelation with reverb.
I’m the disciple of the damned,
spitting parables of survival,
because even salvation got street names.
And when I’m gone,
let the echo say —
he wasn’t holy, but he was honest.
He turned pain into psalms,
and gave the streets a voice that sounded like home.
(echo)
Even sinners can preach if the sermon bleeds truth.

13 Nov 2025
Midnight Pilgrim

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