To write poems.
I've been more concerned
With picking locks
Than writing rhymes,
Pouring out my ragged mind
In beat up lines.
I'm running the streets,
Hitting my hustle -
But I've got to say
I'm making bank;
Squeezing blood from rocks
Not flowing free down
Detroit's streets all tangled up
In the lyrical knots of hip-hop.
Nowhere to go, nothing to do
But bind my time in thoughts
Of whiskey bottles and you.
I spit, I stumble, find my feet
But I don't mumble, I don't stop.
I almost made a G today,
And yeah, I made it in a sleazy way.
That's ok, because I'm still a poet
Running game instead of sonnets.
Give me a mission and I'm on it,
All I need is a pen or a drill bit-
What's ever stopped me but me?
Not a goddamn thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment