|
Not quite poetry or rap |
I talk to poor,
real poor,
not lazy on your ass
poor,
pour me a glass
spare your hard earned cash
poor,
I talk to the limbless,
and men with malicious mind.
Ignorance nineteen years old,
sitting on his spine.
He's going against the grain
but still in the grain
he needs the grain
to feel the pain,
or he's poetryless-
friendless without the grain.
He shuns facts,
thinks he's been there and back
but hasn't been to Bosnia
to feel the real bleeding.
I've cooked the crack,
can't see him surviving
my street's beating,
but he stays in coffee shops
bleating,
afraid of being middle class.
He needs the credibility,
ghetto fertility,
too weak for hip-hop
so he flexes
his spoken word
and fabricates a mask.
copyright 2004
The
TruthHearse |
