Oh how sweet it is? So sweet, isn’t it?
To live in the same joyous ways you once did,
Before you learn your alphabets.
To have the same conscious,
Before you got used to saying “****”

I sit here smoking a Black & Mild,
Asking myself, “what is this ****?”
The plastic tip burning.
I’m inhaling, like it is cool.

Mock the happy people,
Because that’s just what I do, Nah.
Because that’s a crowed I will never become.
I to happiness is like birds to fish.

If the term “in my feeling” was a man.
Man, our ****** activities would be so graphic and explicit.
To the point, where people would mistake my profession.
Just like how they mistake Marylyn Monroe’s.

I would be like so many other women.
Saying I hate how my man can’t listen.
But allowing his hypnotic strokes from his tempted pelvis to be my prison.
Saying I’m leaving, but come back to visible bruises.
Like ****, am I trippin?