#hustlers
Maybe thugs aren’t shooters,
They all need to decompress.
Calling themselves gangsters,
Never should they be blessed.
Thugs don’t get all their girls,
They pay them just big bucks.
Killing like they own all worlds,
Murdering with all their Glocks.
Blood gangs, where are the Crips?
Crip gangs, where is the Bloods?
They are fake owning their cribs,
Murdering just to own any goods.
Gangsters don’t own their swags,
It’s the Rap Game, it’s the G Code.
They rob and steal, filling all bags,
Man, these gangsters seem all old!
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
Watching night step-sitters staring at each passerby
abiding time as if counting sheep stepping with the city's cadence
Hearing sirens alarming in their BEWARE BLARING;
persistent fearfulness for evil and citizens securities
Staring-walking-bodies searching a barren land prostrating
before the great needle
Patched streets and decaying sidewalks by flooding night lights lay surreal
DECAYING fingers of poverty playing its fingers into every crack, crevice; into every pore, into every cell member
into one's whole being
Sounding the hip-hop generation street corners of hustlers
jiving away the night
The hustled and hustlers' overwhelming struggling for power; being surrounded by red brick and stone; being incased in poverty
Pounding city hysteria;
at times laying silent in sleepless depth
by the waning gradualness;
anytime readying itself to ERUPT
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC