My poetry derives from poverty, drugs guns, cold bodies and teary eyes. As a youngen my dreams got side tracked when my father got sent back. I wanted to be in the military, I would’ve enlisted after high school and been a soldier like many other men in my family. I knew that’ll get me out the hood, combat boots, camo and a dog chain bearing my name, I would’ve looked good. Life became fubar, fucked up beyond all repair, I wound up in the concrete trenches, day and night you saw me out there. Still young and naive I became an armed force like the army, navy, air force and marines, had my deuce power and understanding build cipher amongst other protection while chasing the almighty dollar. I missed the opportunity to be a kid that grew to become a man that got married on a base and raised military brats because I was trapped making profit off cooked coke packs. It was instant rebellion, I wanted to feed my mother and brothers, At that time I wasn’t trying to build a business or reach a million, I just wanted to maintain the lifestyle we lived when pops was liv’n. We wasn’t rich but we weren’t poor either, life took a bad turn by us losing the breadwinner. Things got ugly with no one to guide me, so I moved in the direction of blood money. Soon after I understood that terminology. Slugs pricked skin and mangled anatomy… hood phlebotomy. Not all currency had red stains because blood didn’t reach pockets when shot in the brain, so it remained dirty green in a murderous game, Lost most of my team for turning pure coke into crack cocaine.
Infinite the poet 2019
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