Aug 2013
DESTINY IS A S0N OF A ***** 01-22-11
Destiny most certainly means death
But down here, ***** murders are allowed.
A Low profile is seen as weak, soon
slaughtered by their predators.
Truth: Oakland gangsters are serous.
They bang it for the colors,
colors of their territory
collateral damage lay dead
in the street; the rotting innocent.
This conflict, this senseless war
between three colors, blue, red and black
is why violent Oakland is now called
..... "Baby Iraq", yep you heard me: BABY IRAQ
a ****** occurs every three days
....over red, blue and black.
They say they fight over turf and colors.
I think they're the same damm thing.
Thier colors mark the poles like dogs.
The scent of the enemy is evident.
Intel from the neighborhood walls
reveals the constant dissonance
and the unwillingness to lose.
A grenade of spray paint,
criss-crossing, the others' lines
until it's time to get some respect,
Ya feel me?!?
I hear this phrase so many times
it hardly phases me anymore.
Yeah, I feel ya, dude,
now whatcha gonna do?
This one boy's eyes had me mesmerized.
As he talked softly into the distance.
He began to rock in a sad back and forth,
as his homies began to surround him
He was the wise one, the shot caller
even with his weak form peeing in a bag
hanging from his wheel chair.
Javier was wearing black, the color from his hood
He was just a gang affiliate until color blue
( or was it red?)pulled up and shot him...
he's no longer walking, in a wheel chair instead.
He was beautiful I fell most in love
with his angelic face with an elf's chin
coffee with lot's of cream color skin
He was smooth as porcelain
He had a youthful moustache
and a memory of a war veteran
He is a gang member now,
in the middle of a warzone.
"Be Bait", "Play Chicken",
take chances, on the enemy's
turf, become victor or victim
Names of games, dangerous,
and fun provoking the violence
passed down through each generation
Some sort of genetic adrenaline.
The series of small deadly battles
leaves a smell of fresh gun powder
asphalt and blood spilled iron
three colors pouring out,
turn into the color of wine.
Hopelessness is proven out
by the swollen death count,
mounting up, the line of corpses
waiting to be thrown off gurneys
entering the morgue, then
tossed into the freezer
with the rest of them.
Baby Iraq has become
a force of its own on the street.
If they ever figured that out,
They'd be running the nation.
They are too caught up
in their fathers' hatred
History repeats, written line by line
Raw power in the clutch of stupid minds,
begins and ends with small apocalypses.
In dire situations, they eat their young,
like ******
The gobbling up of offspring is
nothing new or unsacred.
It's what they do to
postpone their own fate.
Any beneficial gain is not felt yet
but will be, in the events that
did NOT happen
They don't get it
there is no benefit.
They all just die.
Destiny most certainly means death
But down here, ***** murders are allowed.
A Low profile is seen as weak, soon
slaughtered by their predators.
Truth: Oakland gangsters are serous.
They bang it for the colors,
colors of their territory
collateral damage lay dead
in the street; the rotting innocent.
This conflict, this senseless war
between three colors, blue, red and black
is why violent Oakland is now called
..... "Baby Iraq", yep you heard me: BABY IRAQ
a ****** occurs every three days
....over red, blue and black.
They say they fight over turf and colors.
I think they're the same damm thing.
Thier colors mark the poles like dogs.
The scent of the enemy is evident.
Intel from the neighborhood walls
reveals the constant dissonance
and the unwillingness to lose.
A grenade of spray paint,
criss-crossing, the others' lines
until it's time to get some respect,
Ya feel me?!?
I hear this phrase so many times
it hardly phases me anymore.
Yeah, I feel ya, dude,
now whatcha gonna do?
This one boy's eyes had me mesmerized.
As he talked softly into the distance.
He began to rock in a sad back and forth,
as his homies began to surround him
He was the wise one, the shot caller
even with his weak form peeing in a bag
hanging from his wheel chair.
Javier was wearing black, the color from his hood
He was just a gang affiliate until color blue
( or was it red?)pulled up and shot him...
he's no longer walking, in a wheel chair instead.
He was beautiful I fell most in love
with his angelic face with an elf's chin
coffee with lot's of cream color skin
He was smooth as porcelain
He had a youthful moustache
and a memory of a war veteran
He is a gang member now,
in the middle of a warzone.
"Be Bait", "Play Chicken",
take chances, on the enemy's
turf, become victor or victim
Names of games, dangerous,
and fun provoking the violence
passed down through each generation
Some sort of genetic adrenaline.
The series of small deadly battles
leaves a smell of fresh gun powder
asphalt and blood spilled iron
three colors pouring out,
turn into the color of wine.
Hopelessness is proven out
by the swollen death count,
mounting up, the line of corpses
waiting to be thrown off gurneys
entering the morgue, then
tossed into the freezer
with the rest of them.
Baby Iraq has become
a force of its own on the street.
If they ever figured that out,
They'd be running the nation.
They are too caught up
in their fathers' hatred
History repeats, written line by line
Raw power in the clutch of stupid minds,
begins and ends with small apocalypses.
In dire situations, they eat their young,
like ******
The gobbling up of offspring is
nothing new or unsacred.
It's what they do to
postpone their own fate.
Any beneficial gain is not felt yet
but will be, in the events that
did NOT happen
They don't get it
there is no benefit.
They all just die.
