The Hustle

Cocaine dreams.
138th and cypress Ave.
Where I learned my numbers,
Colors and alphabets.
MS-13s,
Bloods
Crips,
Blues,
Red…

A bull,
I was turned into.
By minority tendencies.
It’s all I saw growing up,
Only had I to fend for me…
In the streets…
Of NYC…

Can’t be taken out,
Deceased,
Ceased by the gun,
Played by the one,
Hollow tip out to pierce an empty soul.
How ironic would that be?

But,
I just ramble and run in circles.
Death by my own ignorance as I lay in infernos.
Over every bullet I’ve had with a name on it,
I couldn’t let go…

One of them had mine…