Vanilla skies while driving through the Highway.
An express way right into the darkest Cave I have ever known to exist after suffering an onslaught,
And lips opening for loaded tongues rolling shots towards you,
Off the tip…
Bullets fired from the tip of the morning.
I’ve mourned in my early years of life,
Even if he was present within his closed corner as I kept writing my own life story…
A typical narrative from the Bronx.
I might’ve gotten physical handling all the wrongs,
Committed by every ridiculed child that became lost,
Inside of their Anger,
Still rising along…
With mine as well…
Can’t help but to think I’ve turned those Vanilla Skies into a Descending Hell.
Where Hurricanes strike along with a view covered by Tsunamis.
Grounds shattered by Earthquakes that soon got me.
As I tripped and spilled gas on a wildfire water itself couldn’t put out,
Becoming a new body.
From disasters I’ve made worse whether or not I wanted to see endless rain…
The second I became the Author of my Book rather than being another’s character in their own,
Those dark clouds disappeared from the sky!
The minute I,
The critics and the cynics living lies my work vilifies…
Might’ve been bred by slums,
Never did I write those narratives.
Never does it have to be my life.
Peace & Love