Living urban poetry

We use to pick the abandoned car with the most windows as a wind breaker in the winter, we would be in there wishing…  We wasn’t wishing for a heater, although that would’ve been nice, we wished one of our house keys could turn on those old ass plymouths, dusters and novas so we could drive around and look for customers instead of sittn on the benches with Jack Frost surrounding us, it was already a cold world.
Shelter wasn’t far away but we’ll rather get frost bitten rather than letting money get away. The longer we stayed, the more we moved… the more we moved, the more profit we’ll split, so we just sat in them abandoned cars or those wood benches on the block, cold as fuck, wiping away frozen snot.
We put that work in, Ralphy,(rip) Edgar(rip) crazy mike, Orlando(rip) my birth circa kin, the foundation. From rags to riches, to bullet holes, staples and stitches, to losing so many men that Life to me, is what the definition of a bitch is. When it comes to fallen soldiers…I’ve seen men cry, I know men that prayed for death, because they know they’ll miss their homie so bad that they’ll rather die, Ive seen some that stood stone faced understanding the reality, wasn’t in shock or in disbelief, so much anger built up inside that after burials, immediately it was plans to search and destroy soul thieves, ya know, an eye for an eye.
Me, I was soaking in urban poetry, all black attire, tears flowing down cheeks of mourners, the pitch of mothers screams that couldn’t get any higher, the we don’t die we multiply flowers, the glued eyes and lips look on a scholar from the school of hardknock that will never graduate to college, ya know boss money, but moved on to the pearly gates with the majority. Time wasn’t on our side tic toc, tic toc 911’s, another homicide

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