Hot as heck or south Texas,
I’m not sure which.
Indie hip hop blastin’ in my
ear holes. Aesop spittin’ bout
prescription drugs most of them
I’ve taken. How long’s it
take a depressed kid to find
the underground? 10 years.
That’s not an opinion. It’s a fact.
Now gimmie that.
Where’d the beat go?
Wait … Now it’s back.
Now it’s here and now it’s
wack. Track must have
skipped. Just a blip on the
radar wishin’ on a
gray star. That spacebar in
between seems way far,
as I crash into a parked car.
Dust myself off and smile a
smile that’s full of broken glass.
Driver says “Imma kick yo
Ass.” Oh well, here we go again.
Damn man, I forgot my pen.
Who’s a writer without a why,
what and when?
I cannot shake my suburb, no matter how hard I try.
I really think I must, without ever wondering why.
Even though I live in city now, we both know where I’ve been.
Born to green lawns and spanish maids and undercover sins.
I’ll always miss a grittiness, a fire that I’ll have to do without.
My words will never carry far, never have such clout.
I cannot be a thug or pimp, though I often wish I was.
I cannot speak slick lines of quip, whiteness just because.
Who knew a place that’s lined with lace could restrict and revile,
And have me wishin’ so feverishly to be born along the nile.
You see black is cool and white is wack, least that’s what’s in my mind,
It took me years to come to this, I’m surprised I found the time.
I’ll call myself whatever I like, versed in poem and in rap.
“Hip hop don’t belong to you,” fuck whoever told me that.
I’ll channel Maya whenever I feel, I promise I don’t give a damn.
Flip it like a white tupac or a black uncle sam.
This poet from the suburbs has seen a lot of shit,
One thing that I’ll tell you straight, I’ll never fuckin’ quit.
A place don’t define no man, and I’ll never fuckin’ quit.