Everyones chillin’ Groovin' tunes rollin’ Lowriders cruisin’ Then your loud *** comes along Takin’ up space Yours and mine Wreckin’ smooth Pushin’ your own groove "Donk in charge" No votes necessary Everythin’ sighs Bubble on the mic Doin’ your business All over the room Box store cut-*** mule Nothin’ but unwoke noise Blow Bull Horn
echoes fall on my skin like ripples of fear a lonely gaze toward pattern ignores the warmth behind my eyes I trace the veins of my hand rolling bones and tendons a feeling of solace the sound of my own breaking under pressure I caused
a lilac touches the nape of my neck soft and forgiving a grace I do not grant myself serenity found in chills interrupting ripples disturbing the disturbance
There are clouds of sound and noise That utter thoughts in a muffled voice, Gestures of hands simply won’t cast out Cloudy skies in days of doubt.
Like strangers lost in a crowd Whose cries are buried by the loud, The loud din of helpless wanderers Whose presence disrupts and disturbs.
All strangers left on their own, Islands floating out in the fog; Orphans with cruel fates to bemoan; Fates that are swept under the rug.
And who's looking with interest, who reaches down with an arm, Never so eager to help, neither too late nor too soon? Who would make this world perhaps a little more warm And freshen the skies of our cloudy afternoon?