Little to no resistance baby. Up close you see my struggle when you read between the lines. But I'm sticking to my guns so this kind of repetition reveals to you how comfortable I am with talking about survival. The ghetto poet strikes again. His comeback season in which he came back home. Some things familiar, a lot has changed, but it's still the same place he calls home, he always held on to it, never gave it up, no throwing dirt on the border that seperates my hood from your hood. Whether rags or riches, I was still the MVP on these grounds. I'm amazed myself. It was hard to maintain this image in my mind of the place I loved and kept from getting distorted. If it's one thing I hate, everything outside of this is blurry, It's like rush hour in dense fog, traffic jams and all the hassle. But it's only you you see trying hard the most, grinding, weaving, toss and turning, seeing ghosts occasionally. Everyone around can't see past their thoughts either. Who could I relate to out here, what am I missing? A fog light to show you I came prepared for this life?! **** this life if I can't even see the light at the end of the tunnel. This claustrophobic reality is the reason I feel alone. **** the accolades. No real room for me to express myself or if not, at least just feel open to all this clouded perspective you start to get when the sun allows the day to throw shade on your home. Kids see ghosts too don't they? Guess I gotta be a ghostbuster.