A Harsh Life

My teammates and I lived a harsh life, our bodies are riddle with bullet holes, have razor keloids and wounds from knives. They’re bad predicament reminders, scars of attempted murder, some tatted over, I left mine in plain view because when I look at them they’re motivation to go harder every sight fuels my fire. Why couldn’t everyone have trap graff on their epidermis instead of a lot of men being placed under the surface or in a fiery furnace?

Sand box homies dropped chasing the almighty dollar, it was the same fate for the generation after, there’s war scars on sons and fathers, big brothers buried little brothers and vice versa, the root of all evil produced cloak less reapers, if he dies… He dies, the streets will get bloody for come up paper. Life has no worth to those scheming to get rich off others gain, if you’re the middle man you get removed by slug rain

The things we did had some men getting locked up while anxiously awaiting a child, during those bids their kids had a kid, they still have time so son and grandkids won’t see grandpa, who was a young hustler, on the outside for a long while. The things we did and the reactions stole my smile. We wanted to end poverty and we did, since we reached that type of success we figured why not take it further, organize to monopolize in the state of empires, it wasn’t greed, it was wishful thinking that led to mass murder.

Infinite the poet 2019