Jul 2016
One night in a blacked out dream , I saw the queen.
****, ****, ****; strong and dark with no cream.
She keeps me up.
Beautiful art unframed and unfinished; begging a young Picasso -
To put the touch of his brush.
Kilo for kilo she's my addiction.
As the queen, I hit her 'gram' with the smoothest diction.
Not trying to collide but I'm lovin' her friction -
And despite impending demise and my lates affliction;
I see in her royal eyes, "Is he real or fiction?"
Those brown sugar eyes, they won't gleam - Even if a young prince got green and clean.
She discerns what glitters and what ain't gold.
She doesn't know much about love but she knows about soul.
That's why her heart isn't package and her time ain't sold.
She walks as if she's in glass slippers italicizing a beautiful woman in bold.
She's the dopest so she's never fiend and she's never leaned.
That black never cracked and her aspirations, she's never quit.
She a lil bit thick but she ain't never bricked, all net my baby;
I'll never pass her, that's just swish.
She got that Bantu up in Bambu -
Don't get it twisted.
That melanin poppin', not her cherry, she won't risk it.
She put Lynch on the bench - ain't no ***** ever ran through but they ran to.
She's the reincarnation of her mama, but she embodies her grandma.
She got the realest figure, before never after the comma.
Divined by God, designed by God;
Her eyebrows stay 'fleek' and her edges stay laid.
Her ideal man: good cook, a good lover and a good maid.
She always talks about living on her own, she actin' so grown.
She just wants a house with a man who knows how to go out but stay home.
To her, her womb is like the treasure of the Earth,
Don't talk about planting no seed unless you nurturing the dirt.
She's all about last, cause her last is her first.
And for all her dinner dates she hopes they end in desert.
By twelve midnight, she adorns her head-cloth, head wrap, head scarf -
Don't hit up her FaceTime unless you just want to talk.
She's the queen of all colors, she wears that black like it's true.
****, ****, ****; strong and dark with no cream.
She keeps me up.
Beautiful art unframed and unfinished; begging a young Picasso -
To put the touch of his brush.
Kilo for kilo she's my addiction.
As the queen, I hit her 'gram' with the smoothest diction.
Not trying to collide but I'm lovin' her friction -
And despite impending demise and my lates affliction;
I see in her royal eyes, "Is he real or fiction?"
Those brown sugar eyes, they won't gleam - Even if a young prince got green and clean.
She discerns what glitters and what ain't gold.
She doesn't know much about love but she knows about soul.
That's why her heart isn't package and her time ain't sold.
She walks as if she's in glass slippers italicizing a beautiful woman in bold.
She's the dopest so she's never fiend and she's never leaned.
That black never cracked and her aspirations, she's never quit.
She a lil bit thick but she ain't never bricked, all net my baby;
I'll never pass her, that's just swish.
She got that Bantu up in Bambu -
Don't get it twisted.
That melanin poppin', not her cherry, she won't risk it.
She put Lynch on the bench - ain't no ***** ever ran through but they ran to.
She's the reincarnation of her mama, but she embodies her grandma.
She got the realest figure, before never after the comma.
Divined by God, designed by God;
Her eyebrows stay 'fleek' and her edges stay laid.
Her ideal man: good cook, a good lover and a good maid.
She always talks about living on her own, she actin' so grown.
She just wants a house with a man who knows how to go out but stay home.
To her, her womb is like the treasure of the Earth,
Don't talk about planting no seed unless you nurturing the dirt.
She's all about last, cause her last is her first.
And for all her dinner dates she hopes they end in desert.
By twelve midnight, she adorns her head-cloth, head wrap, head scarf -
Don't hit up her FaceTime unless you just want to talk.
She's the queen of all colors, she wears that black like it's true.
