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(Source: woodroomcollective)
time fell off my sleeve
in the heavy winds of spring
when asked how i died
a little
every day
i captured the grey from the skies
and my sprouting beard
and my falling lids
held no secrets anymore
even the fools know
it rains in spring
early morning style tips from my boy j. flocka
occasionally
i rise above the
noise and ponder
my pacesthrough the city
life lends itself to
my eyeslights captured and
held betweenthese hands
but more often
than not i fade,
brown skin into
blackand become just another
witness to the
swinging veins of
this lonely city,
never sleeps alone
but never
quite wholewe’re the product
of these broken
streets, raising
seaswe’re nothing
it’s way too
early for 7 o’
clock
the hands
of time often
laugh at me
with their chatteringteeth, nails drag
across my arms
leaving scars where
there shouldn’t be
and i’m everywhere
i shouldn’t
be

occasionally
i rise above the
noise and ponder
my paces
through the city
life lends itself to
my eyes
lights captured and
held between
these hands
but more often
than not i fade,
brown skin into
black
and become just another
witness to the
swinging veins of
this lonely city,
never sleeps alone
but never
quite whole
we’re the product
of these broken
streets, raising
seas
we’re nothing
look at me, i am sex personified
I watched today fade into
yesterday, calendar ink
stained our floors
what are we but dust
and words spread thin
throughout the atmosphere?