Tuesday, December 22, 2009


One of my fav write from last year...

sHE slept left from right besides him. kept his ego warm and clothes pressed. fed his appetite and any request. his mold was painted gold despite his imperfections.

sHE praised for his company and presence. yet the glory was too soon. opened heart for love, but received less than a friend.

sHE was willing and able. she gave, but what did she receive?steps, far away from self in order to meet him. expectations uplifted by reputation. but he couldn't keep them. and the way, the walk, the distance became greater.overwhelmed by new emotions turned sweet, yet eventually ended sour. mercy and grace carried her soul. faith and hope guided her heart. things will never be the same.

things will never be the same. scarred by genuine concern. bruised by mistake to trust feelings supplied through relief. sustained with thought that positive will come. but things will always be different.

now sHE was taken to a world that pushed her faith to the fullest. her spiritual connect to some limits. and bouncing back, the journey seems forgiven. but never forgotten.he took her heart and smashed victory on her emotions. caressed her body with devilish thoughts, yet claimed holiness.

he kept her in a belief that change is possible. one day. but to late became too soon. he used his powers to infiltrate her thoughts. and left her in fear of love.

but with hope she healed. and with determination love will return.her GOD has never failed her yet

bitter sweet

Tick tock.. Circling time. I am watching souls search for sanity, dast tracks to destinations. Forward bound. Sitting in the airport.. Waiting for my flight. Thinking about yet another trip home.. Bittersweet. My fortune cookie said yesterday that- if I am generous this week- it will come back to me next week. I believe in stacking karma! Do you!? I got a free flight today, confirmation I made it to an interview to teach in New Orleans.. Yet I just can't wait to see my family. One brother will be transfered soon... And the other will be locked up soon after.. Moms and me are going to ride out 2010 together! What are you thankful for??? Bittersweet momements are still a necessary part of life..stack yall karma!!

Monday, November 23, 2009

remember her name : for GIRL X

Remember Her Name

Marks the spot of unforeseen, unexplained,
Frantic, fragile, feelings forced into frustration
Twelve years, each replaying voids misplaced by media
Americakkka stuck- Christmas frenzy, 1997, holiday happiness,
Led astray by heartbroken families
Missing, seen on milk cartons, found lifeless
Lastly suspecting parental ties until now.
Forensic science
JonBenet Ramsey, dead.

While across lands,
3 decades after Chicago race riots
Battling life,
Underground exposure,
2 weeks later: masked by innocence, discredited by race story stolen, untold
Defined by economist, expected to die, and survived.
Documented, like a slave
Changed name to cut past ownership
Last names claim tickets, price tags for freedom, identity.
X marks her spot in history

Belated Outrage.
February 24th,
46 days after
Found on floors of vacant rooms, 7 flights suspended in hell
Subscribed violence for the poor, aiming to see grandma, caught by the wolf of
Cabrini green, prison snap shot, cell block, tower gates, life in slow motion
North side, chi-town, high rise, low hopes, demise
Infested with assumptions, gang violence, damaged
Devils leaving doors open for escape, outlet
Sun doesn't shine through windows, barricaded with bars
When police, peace officers, are afraid to enter...

She was just 9
Should’ve been Riding pink huffy, having
Knocking on doors selling souls Delights
Yet she lied covered, bruised, purple embellished with hate.
5 years younger than Emmitt
And bombed inside
Could have been in Birmingham
Branded X, for all girls

Stripped, strapped, snatched, stranded,
Stranger stole her sanity, silently.
Child like, diminished to materials, chopping block from society
Silenced, ripped vocals to re define help, screaming for heaven
Tortured, captured, caged...
Biting, fighting, kicking, screaming
Strength weakened to useless
Klepto stole her, never her soul, trapped, morbid to reality
Angels watched her
Hijacked her purity, seized her legacy, never again received
Removed from normalcy, placed in purgatory, lost in mistreatment, blackout
Tested her covenant, pulled at her faith, lesson of hope. Never lost her soul.

Impulse, target, trigger, traitor, premeditated
Gun or knife neither used
Safety abused, slapped. Stuck between now and then
Fighting jeopardy, double the doubt.
Fear injections of instability, kicking pride with ego, shaking logic,
And changing ethics
Emotions seep through, everything slowly shattered, she was victimized.
Action embellished with disaster. Truth is facts act as facades to daydreaming.

No whip, no connection to the physical harm, she was helpless.
Face, fist, switch, stick
Her ribs-broken
Body defined by beauty within
Fragile, impact increased dimensions
Blood hungry, attach. Injury doesn't described caused, nor effects.
Closed mouth fed by t shirts, body rejects. Malnutrition. Poisoned
With pesticides. Foaming. Tracing life.
Pain, stress:
Unrelated to the tears inside seeking repair.
Blind, immobile. Left dead. For dust. Slipping. Now stuck.

Young girl, removed from child like Made woman
Emaciated innocence, robbed.
Abandoned to dwell in pools of forgiveness, sacrificial self love.
Hate, assaulted mentally. Stripped of preparation. Life hit head on.
Legacy dehumanized to nothing, scorn. But success not predetermined.
Place into adulthood
Against will and destiny, never complete.
Parts punctured golden treasure. Internally. Shredded to pieces.
Only to find life again. Soul harvest, harness strength and
Faith, complacent with grace, moving with depth, life gets no easier.
Spirit came soaring through. Sunshine.
Laughter meets smiles. Not programmed for existence. But is.

Soul gleaming through silence,
Wheelchair bound freedom guided.
Rose grew between cracks. Life. Death. Breathe.
Kidnapped, threatened, poisoned and raped.
He beat her. She still inhales. Her soul, relief.
Survival. Live, let go.
Girl X-
Shatoya Currie,
Remember her name...

Sunday, November 22, 2009

kwansaba's for him

enrichment,kwansaba- 7 lines, 7 words, 7 letters or less

ego tippin

tripping on shoe laces from owns foot
intent spun of spider webs of irony
walking mighty on water that greed drank
keepin self on mntain atop city sheeps
the inner being praised but ignored
scales tippin self drippin vision lost
soul lost soul lost self never xcepted

the hustle

math the matic brain storm quick reflex
jumping to numbers testing storm life skills fast
never was this good with adding always
until money hungry hopes drove long days
still frozen on greed,guilt, and ambition
dreams drilled into cell block corners forever
too long ago were hopes beleived acheived


bystander lost

peace written strong willed black man walks
life driven off impulse distract greed lust
stagnte under pass fredom train de railed
passer by lost in cause and possible
justice renamed him turned wrong after right
core hungry with pain from ambush past
soul lost casue, life left him starving


jan 16th

red summer has be came winter
long days of despair linger closer
lynched men in mental slavery prison now
last chances to str8 line life over
routed by GOD to do other work
for gotten laws of trust,loyalty, worth
lost- love needed. missed. wanted. now. ALWAYS!

love's rejection

saddle bags full of emotion pull me
trashed memory leave my soul empty
reject every bodies' worst enemy temptin me
thought love wasnt suposed to feel sensles
mystery chills left scratchs on my soul
pain addict xtracts purity but still falls
cold cement never felt so familiar after

homecomming - happy earth day ESSO

everytime i go to visit home memories and stories flash by, as if i havent been there in years,yet its only been months. so many things have changed, but yet so much has stayed the same. today is my older brother's birthday...and we havent talked since july..a little after i wrote this piece..

Anxious for recapturing feelings so pure. And indescribable.
Turning in my sleep seeing images of their faces
Remembering my mothers embrace
And hearing new borns cry so gracious
Recollection of memories stamped too late for now, but never too soon to be found
I wonder how home will feel
Displaced are the family values
And family
Misplaced is my brother's connection
And love for attention
Finding ego on forefront
And now cell block
Twice fold of mistakes made broken and repeated
Causing strife and struggle between the family woven by bond
Middle birth child of only boys I see beauty In my ties to them
Yet slowly slipping is everything invested
And I wonder how home will feel
And I wonder how I will feel home
Will it be the same place that nurtured my pride
Stroked my knowledge and drive
Kept me motivated to create and disappear from nothing, to help provide
I wonder how things will feel
If lost is now because things have changed
Or if change is lost in the actions of yesterday
And the consequences of now
Leaving me with voids and arms open
Waiting for love from hugs missed
And phone calls to little sis
I wonder if the city misses him too....?
Or is it just me!?

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

overwhelmed overachiever

the overwhelmed overachiever... my mind just keeps running and running. the weirdest questions for people and life seem to just always spin. at times i wish i could catalog my thoughts. program them silently to re organize themselves, based on priority, efficiency, and purpose. then things would all align. and instead i write notes. verbally and visually placing value where necessary. and placing other things to the side when needed. the overachiever that sees hope in all children.. whether broken,new, fresh, fixed, healed, torn, or disruptive. yet realistic. i dont need every child, but every child needs me. balance. there is comfort in balance. when we practice success, what does it look like? when we practice 'happy' love what does it feel like? when we practice healthy expression how does it look? balance. life is balance. every day that i have that disrupts my routine... i have 5 that keep me balanced. and focused on my purpose. and the passions that keep me going.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Patrica Smith's : "Her Other Name"

For Girl X, Chicago

The first thing we took away was your name.
We erased the bleak shame from each syllable,
blurred the image of your tiny body broken into
network sound bytes, snippets of videotape
with a swollen face Xed out.
as in she is no longer a good girl.
as in two simple lines crossing
where a beating heart should be.
You were little, like we don’t want to remember.
You were stutter-folded, you were beaten liquid
on those lonely stairs, your skin was slashed,
you were raped with a fist and sticks, insecticide
sprayed into your seeing and down the tunnel of
your throat. He must have held your mouth open,
stretching the circle, leaving moons in your lip.
The violation left you blind and without tongue,
wrecked the new clock of you. You were jumprope
doubletime and pigeon-toed, navy blue Keds with
round toes and soles like paper, jelly sandwiches
and grape smash fingers, you, ashy-kneed rose,
missing rib, splintered and flinching through a
death sleep. In which direction do we pray?
To recreate you, they relied on ritual. Weeping
nurses gently parted your hair, the teeth of the
comb tipped in rubber, and dried blood showered
from your scalp like chips of paint. They rubbed
warm oil through the unraveling braids, threaded
ribbon through to the ends. We will give you back
your life by pretending you are still alive. Lowering
your X into a tub of warm water, they scrubbed
you with stinging soap, sang songs filled with light
and lyric, then dabbed you dry with those brutal
sickbed towels, avoiding the left nipple, smashed
before it began. They wrapped you in the stiff garb
of virgins and told you that you were healed, there
in that stark room of beeping machines and blood
vials and sterilized silver, they built you a child’s
body and coaxed your battered heart back inside.
X. The violation left. X
you blind and X voiceless
And they braided your hair every day, gently, the
ritual insane, strands over, under, through, over,
under, through, fingers locked in languid weave,
until the same of it all brought your voice back.
The nurses cheered, told you they’d found a cure
for history, that the unreal would refuse to be real.
Soon you’ll be able to see again, they whispered.
I know you never meant to be ungrateful, my rib,
when you rose up half and growled this grace:
OK you
can keep

stop the violence series

i am currently working on reshaping my thoughts. breaking a writer's block that has appeared at different levels of inspiration and motivation that i can not even begin to express. the off the wall things that formulate are not necessarily given the proper space to be nurtured. but anyways...

my current project consist of this #stoptheviolence series.. in light of the last few African American youth that have been lost.. and countless murders that go unmentioned especially where i am from (Rochester,NY)...its the fuel to my fire..

i just dropped the first installment.. TASER While Black.. make sure you read that..
next up is the Story of GIRL X from 97'. If you are not familiar with her, no reason to kick yourself. There is always a reason for the lack of media coverage and exposure. This reason: Jean Benot Ramsey slain two weeks prior to the story of GIRL X. So of course... White Woman Syndrome hit hard. cabrini green and chicago have become numb to such incidents...

and hopefully my forthcoming piece will highlight her story.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Taser While Black

Taser While Black:2009

Suddenly seen as escape goats
Sparsely filled rags
Full life size
Imitation of life like
With Eyes on the prize type
Tom moved swift
New invention
Shooting flesh
Without leaving holes
Volts replaced bullets
Animals clothed
January 9th
Derrick Jones
Martinsville Virginia

Hunters hunting game
Seeking salute
Collecting priceless ivory
Tally mark
One death per week this year
February 13th
37 years in
Rudolph Byrd

As “Peace officers”
Show off their new pieces
Target practice
On the backs of blacks
Trying to get the highest score
Of torture and execute the harmless
Not responding quickly
Marcus d. Moore, forty,
Freeport Illinois
March 26th

Facts of creation
’69 to aim shots
Since 1974, they practiced
Hit miss
Below centre mass
Stimulating sensory nerve s
Palpating hearts
Seeking brains the wiz never gave
Sweet sixteen
Robert Mitchell
Hit Detroit streets
April 10th

Thomas A. Swift electric rifle
Split seconds erupts currents
Incapacitating muscles and strength
They blamed faulty batteries on Rodney king
Riots produced
It took 5 seconds past minutes
To Spark hate
Disposable camera’s recycled
Captured deaths on voltage
Another slain
Salem Oregon
Gregory Rold
May 23rd

It’s the
21st century lynching
Slaying 3 headed monsters
Lose limbs left lifeless
Scarecrow like
Without reload
Highly praised
Without price
How much does it cost?
Only all civil liberties
June 13, Dwight Madison, 48, Maryland
July 2nd, Roy McKenzie, 25, Cali
August 14th Hakim Jackson, 31, Philly
Either one could have been me
Without reload.

And so as Tom aims to hunt elephants
In the mother land
He inspires
Jack Cover,
NASA researcher to probe deaths into formulation
Another slain not by gunfire
Left uncounted
Yuceff W. Young
Age 21
Brooklyn Ohio
September 19th.

All at the hands
Tom A. Swift’s electric rifle.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Where does Writers Block come from?

So yesterday I was asked, “Where does Writers Block come from?”

First and foremost one must not look at writers block as something negative or positive, but as a state of being that is. Whether necessary, asked, appreciated, or acquired, it’s a place of void that slows or disables artistic creation.

So… is writers block a place of void or just simply a break? Is it a necessity for growth or a writer’s worst enemy? Does it fluctuate depending on purpose, emotion, or tool of expression?

Is writer’s block an inability to express emotions or simply a lack of emotions to express? One can argue that writer’s block has nothing to do with emotions at all.

So with that does the ability to express change with the tool of expression? Is writers block different from when a painter is not motivated, or a musician is not feeling the music around them? What is art? Is the act of creation enough to be art? Or does art need to be back by emotions, expressions, and feelings in order for it to feel substantial? And if creation enough encompasses art, then what is the relationship between lack of creation (writers block) being a state of art.

Some express that writer’s block is merely a transition period, a point of reflection, regression, progression, evolution, growth, or change. But if that is so, then what are you leaving and where are you going? Or does neither matter.

As one brother put it, writers block is “The lost of truth in your words. The moment you become untrue is it the moment in which words protest your pen.” Now, this to me seems like a personification of writing. As if writer’s block is the voice for the art. Speaking loud and clear: damn I am over worked; under paid, bored, or just simply something is not aligned. Writers block is the catalyst for truth and clarity to be found.

In questioning the void and absence of the art you begin to question the purpose of its existence. And not just place the value of each word as a factor in creating perfect sentences, but actually molding or changing someone’s thoughts and thinking. If my ability is snatched away at times when I dare not ask or expect, then of course I want to question why it is not there when I think I need it.

So is writer’s block simple a nomad. It comes and goes based on its own freedom, and inclination, not on life, emotions, tools, expression or growth.

Does any of this even really matter?

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Stolen legacy
Strapped caged mind disabled body
Stuck swollen by life's fight
Swirled emotions
Swarm with commotion
Suddenly distractions equal fractions
Seconds spent wasted in time
Summer spending
Sequential minutes
Surrounded by nothing but references
Sadly succumbed by seduction
Secluded to a place of passion
Straddle and strapped
Sultry share of expression
She stroked
She floats
sure of nothing
Stuck on him
Standing, walking, left, her
Searching, for answers to match his questions,
She, branded
Substance tainted
Steady head strung,
strong willed but lost
Staggering between his syllables, his love song,
Strategically tranced her
Summer silenced by his words on repeat
Scanning each moment,
surveying each place
Submissive response to sunrise,
Stolen legacy
Solution : escape seconds spent in esctacy
Suffering for higher ground
She smiles, sky miles hung on his each word
slow recaps
Secluded to a place of satisfaction
She settled
stepped back ,
Stuck in love for self
Success with each second,
stupidity stepped
She lost time.
Saddened memories
Her Legacy stolen
Self slowly excepted.
Success with each word
She no longer listens.
smiles. submissive to self. Love.
Legacy re molding.

Monday, October 5, 2009


Seconds become ours
And given
Slowly riding
Course unforgotten
Our road less driven
We never meant this
Dead at tracks
Guilt ridden
Hope searching
Blind loving
Before us
Stole, a place of worth
Life living purpose with seeing
Concrete. Swollen
Bruised Loving
Unconditionally open
Yet taken
A Void.
Of social living
Rules. Limits. Creation
You were life.
Emotions misplaced
My secret
My sanity
The We. in Us
To get her
All or nothing
Or average
But Worth something
Trust fall
Last seconds past hours
Claimed passion
Was it to be
Truth. Strong. Unity. In All
Never broken
Tainted poison.
A desired fear
We had it.
Together forever
We never broken
Living in dreams
Always forgotten
False reality
Lived daily
Won't escape me
The fall
Best lived on repeat.
Love at the purest
After the miss me
Concrete swollen
Time worked
We. us
Tracks love train
Smashed and recapping
Gave borrowed love
My secret
My sanity
the raw, the ecstasy
You were.
Seconds became ours.
Never forgetting
Despite all
The fall
Concrete swollen.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


I will be going away for a while.
I haven't decided when or for how long.
It's not a vacation, a business trip, or a family retreat
Release report. Nah scratch that.
Well regardless of the title of my affairs,
I will be back soon. One day soon.
And no shit I am not sick
I am not dying
For I am already dead inside
Apart of me.
This is a trip of resuscitation.
Yes, many are trained in CPR
I understand that you may be able and even more willing.
However, I am too far gone for those techniques.
I need those electrical hands strapped over me.
I have been in cardiac arrest for sometime now.
Nothing a little passion, love ,and science can't heal.
Unless it's just my time. vacation time.
Aint this some bullshit.
The doctor tells me, the surgeon is on stand by.
Recommendations of possible open heart needed to heal holes left by silence and separation.
Attempts at my life while trying to heal my soul.
With no fucking insurance, I am trapped.
Clogged arteries, full of ease, daily routine, but no literary relief.
Doctor's fee charged to knowledge and growth I guess.
Hopefully the bill collectors get the memo.
That's always plan B.
But for now, I prefer internal retreat.
Cleansing meant for only me.
My ink will be resuscitated.
At dawn!
More morphine please.


I loves to be among light and observe darkness, life is learning to be stuck w in (surrounded by ) darkness and admiring light enough to change settings....

Setting boundaries, trying not to cross invisible lines, where the light shines only momentarily...darkness makes you appreciate the qualities of light... Yet what if it shines too bright...blurring visions, so one would rather love in the dark... and feel it

…The illusion is born in shadows that smile, warming cold souls luke, side effects come from too much light beyond the scope of others. Love in the dark can never be complete, having fallen during day on concrete that called my name in my sleep, how could it be justified to not be, it’s a constant relief. Lights out would simply minimize the opportunities .Among brightness you are able to notice things that have gone foreseen...

Yet seeing is not always believing, light creates shadows and they produce illusions...noticing only the fragments of one’s self... So maybe it has nothing to do with lights or being in the dark...simply with how one chooses to be seen. So I'll being a flashlight…

A flashlight. Controlled by self limitations... Beaming when thought decides, and time permits, but what about when I run out of batteries?

Umm that's when I flip on the lights

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Needy People

We are a needy people. A needy people. In such that we search. We search. For answers. For questions. We research ways to survive. We are a needy people. Investigating change. Hoping for progression. And making a difference. We are a people of the masses. Of the pain. And we are the solution. We, are the needy people. the birth of every country. The pride of every building. And the mold to be. The Foundation. We are needy.

We are needy. Needing justice. Needing freedom. Needing equality. Us- the needy people. Title of every story. Fighting for what we believe in. and finding cause in every meaning. And meaning in every struggle. We are in need of each other. Taking hands to scratch backs. We are the village. We raised the child. We are kings. We are queens. We rein cities, countries, continents. We are our ancestors re born. And new. Needy. Needing progress.

We are needy people. In such that we are powerful. We have this natural inclination to do whatever it takes, by any means necessary. To survive. And yet we struggle. We survive struggle. We are needy. We fight justice. We fight injustice. We fight each other. We fight. We are a powerful being. Strength. We find light in darkness. And beauty in pitch. Black. We find faith in solemn. We find peace in faith. We have hope. Ridiculed for our differences. Ridiculed for our similarities. We are a powerful, we are a power house. A needy group of people.

We are needy. We are needy people. In such that we crave change, taste victory, and eat defeat. We are needy in power. In glory. In history. A people that continue despite misfortune. Despite destruction. Despite captivity. Segregation. Miscegenation. Lack of education. Addiction. Corruption. Malnutrition. Willie Lynch them. Die for the cause, because death is easier… sometimes.
We are a needy people.

Martyrs. Symbols. Pickets signs. Separate aint equal. Thinking voting won't change, even though our needy people died to vote. Respect. Rising. Sitting. Running. They hanging. All cuz he was humming. Education. Black education. Blacks educating blacks. Let's educate them. Tenure them. Light in the dark, light better than dark complex. Complexion. The power. Writing. Reading. They killed us for it. And we still are needy. Despite the history books. The pictures. The lynching. After countless drives, sit in, voters registrations. Legislation. We make the history of the country. We make it be.

And they say we are needy people. The truth is we are. Needing love, needing stability, needing justice, community. Needing each other. To continue despite misfortune. Despite destruction. Despite the odds. To survive. And that, we will

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

the art never dies

here is a piece i was truly inspired to create. check him out...miyabailey.com

Inspired by a great artist (first!!)...

He draws his dreams into existence
Sketching his hopes
Through tips built on passion and faith
A haunting habit that his soul breathes
Necessary feed, he bleeds,images
How deep
Each sight creates each masterpiece
Collisions and barricades of passion,love&pain
Life without would be meaningless
Love without would be worthless
Value is bestowed in his worth(work):
Blank slates, create outlets of space
Visionary guided by forces,
Natural movements.
With each blink, seconds spent closed canvas,Sketch book:dream land imagined;becomes.
Reality is rested in his ideals.
Bound by lines, colors, shapes, the feel.
Emotions manifested, observations
Of your passion touch many
Influence action
Retrace universal emotion:
Close to heart, capturing each pump of life
Limited by time,
Yet available
The art never dies.
Production of perfection at war with priorities
And perception of loving art more
Than those tangible.
But: the obsession is within each breath.
And so it is within:
Public viewings, soul etched on all to see
Public feelings
Admired publically
Yet, only needing affirmation and confirmation
Within. mentally.
Always hungry,
Starving artist appetite despite years invested
Misunderstood by the desires of man
Aggression against time
Begging not to be wasted, spent in vain
Lost in the concept of creation.
Conscious controls living. All that is thought, is, and will be.
And he begins without instruction
Guided by movement
Requested by many
Misunderstood by plenty
Placing blame on man
For being only human
Admired, even envied for his craft.
Refreshing, eternal soul starving to be full
Yet exposed
Releasing visions, filling holes
But still left incomplete...
Just breathing...
With each sigh: inhale, exhale- relief.
As he draws his dreams into existence
With each movement comes inspiration
This haunting habit that has his soul
Breathes within him.. The art
Deep sigh: inhale, exhale, -relief.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Often Failure Seems Worst Than Prison

One of my brother's back home is locked up.. and i often write about his decisions,influence,effects, and presence in my life... here is a piece i wrote over the summer...

The plight of a man
Broken by struggles
Pushed by survival
Yet moved by materials
First born. Loved. Adored. Spoiled.
The Creation of a life full of ego
Who Chased pride
Limited by self- determination
Control and societal roles
But his story hasn't proven any different
Same ol'e hit the streets beat

But could have been
A doctor
A surgeon
Could have just been
But he became....
Perfection that got thrown into beats
Heart sound of life
To the minute
Minute to the deal
And deal to seal
The life living
Ego tipping
The hustle
The women
The time stolen
Always start
Now he has to finish

Gone til november
And so scales couldn't have ever
Caught this weight
The plight of this man.
Struggling with brokeness
Searching for paths acquired not earned
Stacks earned through rep acquired
Balancing prison and death
And reps that brought stacks

(Also brought pets
Streets talk
Dogs walk, cat don't live 9 lives
Where I'm from.
And He already used one too many)..

And so he paved
Bull dozer
Street doza
No corner
No formula
No front
All investments pure ego bought
The plight woven through
Flight not once, not twice..and again...
And yet he created a hole deeper than death
A cycle of repetition
Lifestyle changes
created lifestyle maybe's
Of things changing
And though the light always shined
They took pics of the one who
Shinned the brightest
Thinking small cover ups
And large line ups
On hush hush
Would balance?
He knew scales better than any
And was the news.
Fast became now, because yesterday got blue
Out of style. So they watched
They learned
They took pics
While he were ahead of the city.
And even now..
All on his shoulders...
It seems
The worth was earned so hard
That failure is worst than prison...
Leaving nothing left...
But the plight of a man
Broken by struggles...