Poetry

My Homey

One-six-seven-eight like why you even tryin’,
there’s no green on that road, just broken junk pavement,
See with your eyes not like Thoreau, jump in my ride,

Buddy let’s go, my homey, homey. Buckets bounce wildly widely,
Side-to-side, air-jordan styled baby, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.
Loop the loop high flyin’ while you still frontin’

On that blade of grass, but ain’t no one gone and asked you,
My homey, homey. I’m just saying, not goin’ to get
Marvel on you, not goin’ to avenge your mind,

We still cool but, you gotta dig it, my homey, homey.

Artwork seen at The Kitchen Restaurant, South Street, Newburgh NY, Artist Unknown

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The Conversation

Dare

Now to Our Own

Nun zu den Unseren