Fight, Flight or Firearms
Where I’m from you was either
the bully or the bullied
the brain or the brawn
Bested by the biggest
until you acquired firearms
Fight or flight there was no choice
Bust a gun or make no noise
Your fist hits no bullets
It gave power to the man
Your brain uses no power
It stole life from the land
Memories
Only trap I ever cheffed in was my kitchen
I was making bacon, eggs, then I mixed the grits in
When I finished did the dishes
Washed away the mornings
Reminiscent of ass whoopings that didn’t finish
function
The BBQ, the cookout
Black tradition in the village
Black soul, black music
Black food, black feuding
Black goals? Black HOMES
Black people know how that goes
We only got but so far to go
Where I’m From
I come from rich poverty
Where you might be the hero of your story,
but you’re a footnote in everyone else’s
Where when you fall back they crawl back
But every missed call don't deserve a call back
Where the present is just constantly existing for a brief moment,
then vanishing for eternity
Where results are the consequence of a series of actions
Where pain is progress in the right direction
I come from rich poverty
Thanks for watching, I hope you enjoyed misery
Flying Paper Planes in the Projects
Playing manhunt at midnight
First it was tag with the homies
Project babies did it best
Bunny hopping over park gates
Two hands, one hand, no hands
Before the project babies laid to rest
Before hood rats grew up fast
And turned homemade forts into the trap
Before my homies did the dash
We was hooping in the back
Now I just remember these stories
With no one to tell them back
I miss flying paper planes in the projects
I miss the feeling that I had