Keys pressing up against my fingers.
God pushing them for me when I feel like eating dinner.
Y’all don’t understand the kind of work I’m trying to leave on this scene of spitters…
I’m here with another one.
You’re here for another gun line,
When I’m crushing them.
Sprinkling them inside another blunt,
I keep smoking anytime I’m feeling f*cked up…
No time for bullsh*t.
Or kneel to the pulpit.
Hands up together as my prey for the full clip,
You claim to carry.
You’re more like Peyton Manning!
Shakey with a Colt.
All you get is a charlie horse while bucked for ever getting handsy…
So easy to rap about the kind of life barely any of us live in the “hood.”
Even if the lies are supernumerary.
Lies that bury Futures sooner than we,
Think can’t ever hurt us.
An inference most of us like to make when we “think” we found our purpose.
Just until life emerges with a burden we avow to decimate behind the curtains…
How many of us keep our promises?
Without susurrations of any kind behind them?
Let’s be honest in,
This time of profits with,
Prophets preaching for another dollar in a pocket so empty of solacement.
Most watch commercials
Then want to be commercial while focused where the wallet is.
Whereas for me?
I am not King Solomon.
All about peace,
Yet will break your favorite idols into pieces as a protestant!
Who never was…