You know what I mean. Why do we always worry about love? Why are we all worried about how we look?
Truth be told, I love a thick chick.
Why are we so focused on money when we know it’s only paper? This world we live in is messed up, I know, but questions always enter the mind when wandering. A girl can commit suicide because she believes nobody loves her yet she overlooks the boy in the back of class. She refuses him because of what? His pudgy belly? His skin color? Or is it some other expendable physical flaw?
No more love, all that stands in the way of it is the so called “New times” but no one updated my clock, so tell me what time it really is.
Class is more than school, boys and girls. It’s respect, love, familiarity, intimacy and everything else that we search for in the short time we have on earth. I look for it, no one for me, none, zip, nada, no one found. All I want is intimacy that was never found within the mere foot I’ve reached in life’s mile.
But no guide, so regardless of where I go or how long in each direction I go the length is still the same, long like the ropes I was bound ere I was born.
Generational curses
It’s a game, but my PS2 is broken, so how am I still playing? An expression as vampiric as a leech but as relieving as the ground to a marathon runner.
A jogger
I run from it, but I’m slower than most yet speeding like Daytona. I can’t stop thinking about the intermission, the moment our fingers entwined playfully.
I miss it
No lie, I miss them sometimes, her, her, her, and all others that I felt were the expendables like Jet li. This ain’t Hollywood, no one wrote us a script, guess that’s why we’re one of a  kind, huh? No role model, no new friends, just a brotha in a struggle that he asked for himself. Putting the world at his own will so that je can show his generation how to be thegods that they truly are.
Seven pages of what I Would’ve said, notebooks filled with old raps I Would’ve spat if somebody asked, all burned away out of time, out of memory, out of recognition. I’m the phone, I don’t call out, you do it and I oblige you. But I’m  kinda shy, I couldn’t be the star player when my hands shake when I move away from the bench.
You spoke to me, I spoke back: instant chemistry. But you didn’t feel it. Because of what? You know what, never mind, baby girl, I don’t want to know anymore. I would tell you that you changed me, this grammar, I changed it for you, the way I communicate, I changed it for you, but now you jet out like southwest and I’m stuck wit dese tough habits and a broken pride with no one to blame but myself.
Listening to Jazz like I play it, J Cole, like I made it, cooler than the ocean freezing the heat out of my soul, calmer than I once was. But now my questions surround me again.
Just a chubby kid with a pencil and a mind full of questions. Why do you care? You see these clothes I wear? So what if my pants have a hole in them? Your soul is unclothed, barer than that bald spot developing on your head, but I said nothing out of respect and class. Nah, I’m not mad, just frustrated.
A collection of spills in one, I call it what it is, quick and un-thorough. But I have to release it, it’s a typhoon tycoon as I horde the air for my tale. But now I must breath, I’m ready to let go of my unanswered, unasked inquiry