Can you? Hear me when I cry?

I'm not surprised or even sure, for that matter, why people think that way. Can I help that I am a 6-foot 1-inch boy from the ghetto? I didn't start that way. Heck, I'm not even a bastard. I remember my father and my mother. They were married for a short while. What happened? Why are you asking me? I'm the 6-foot 1-inch black boy from the ghetto. I remember our home as a kid. I can even remember running and playing around the yard and in the streets of the city of Miami, Florida. That's where I was born and where I'm from, silly. When I got lost, my dog found me and brought me back home. I'm the youngest of seven. My parents bore five boys and two girls. So, why would you think I would remember that dog's name? If I sent a text message out today, I could find out with ease but is learning that dog's name that important? What's essential to me is; why I am here! The 70's. The ghetto in Orlando, Florida. The city of Orlando wasn't known as The City Beautiful as it is today. I was in fifth grade back then. I remember our old home but not too much about him. I'm trying to hold on to whatever memory I have left, but my head starts to hurt when I think that hard. Are you starting to get the point? Please stop it then. I asked you before why you didn't answer me? Well then, why are you comparing me to that four-foot 9-inch fifth-grader who doesn't live in the ghetto and who has both of his parents? Why does life seem so unfair? Can you? Hear me when I cry? Yeah, I am the biggest of the two, but I wasn't given the same tools to build with. But they look at me and claim it's my fault that I'm building my life the wrong way. They say I got out of the ghetto, and I'm alive today. I wish I could have told you, young man; it's not only the tools you use but the choices that you make. From five to fifty-three, I'm married and happy as can be. Can you? Hear me when I cry?