They're all rapping along
to some fucking garbage that's spewing out of Hot 97..
You can clearly see they are into this absolute horse shit,
singing along to the lyrics of Drake, Rick Ross, Two Chainz..
The list of moronic rappers is endless..
The lyrical content of most these cock smokers is usually nothing
more than grandios claims of drug dealing, catching bodies and more
often than not their effortless avoidance of the Federal Government..
Now call me pessimistic..
But considering most these kids and i say kids as a lot of them are under 21,
find themselves in the tricky predicament of looking at mandatory sentances
ranging from 5-15 years in prison for a few grams of crack coccaine..
To me..
Personally..
..it doesn't seem very likely that the rappers these kids are idolising and clearly
imitating spend their time shotting bricks of coccaine then making recordings
of said crimes to be played on the radio, to millions of people,
which INCLUDE thousands of Federal Agents all over
the United States..
:/
Perhaps i'm wrong..
Perhaps i'm just incredibly naive..
Perhaps i'm becoming pessimistic in my old age (26)..
Perhaps Drake (former child actor)
DOES have solders "that come up from the hit" for him..
Perhaps Rick Ross (former Correction Officer)
DOES sell crack off his iphone and when you buy four,
he kindly fronts you five more..
:/
Times like now..
To be specific i'm talking about as i put thoughts to paper..
I feel like i'm getting old..
Instead of viewing these rappers as merely entertainers,
bozos, clowns, pushing tried and tested methods of controversial
subjects and rebelious personas to sell their records,
I find myself instead seeing a generation of young men
in prison with their lives irreperably damaged, due to their attempts
at mimicking a lifestyle that simply does not exist, they are being lied to,
by individuals that have no interest whatsoever in the effect that their
bogus lyrical content and imagery have on the average impressionable
young man that finds themself in a hard situation looking for a way
to make some money..
They are completely oblivious to their responsibilities as being in
the spot light, they are looked at as role models and should be trying
to put out some kind of a positive message..
But then look where i find myself..
Who cares if you're making money right?
Who the fuck cares if you're selling a load of bullshit and you're phony as fuck?
Who cares if you're advocating a way of life you know nothing about,
that inevitably ends in jailtime?
I'm still working on trying to get my body fat as low as possible,
hence all the running..
One day someone decided to physically stop me in my tracks,
pull his shirt off an flex an obscenely roided bicep in my face..
Timothy let knowledge be born..
"..i don't want to look like you.."
His proud toothless grin quickly morphed into an uneducated offended gurn..
"This what a n****r 'POSED to look like MOTHERFUCKER!"
:/
There was an audience.
I had no choice but to shoot back.
"This what a motherfuckin' CRACKER 'posed to look like, quit jerkin' my motherfuckin' rec.."
He returned fire.
"YOU EVER BEEN TO WAR WITH A N****R!?"
I'm out of ammo.
"My n****r, you's in the terrordome, you goin' to war you gonna need some motherfuckin' grenades"
Perhaps he has a point..
I have this desire to workout at the crack of dawn when i get out,
somewhere high up.
Roof top in London, mountain in Turkey,
doesn't matter..
I can picture it pretty clearly..
I'm wearing a vest,
my prison issue glasses an quite possibly sporting
a long beard..
I'm sporting a few more tattoos,
after all i'm planning on getting my hands, knuckles,
wrists, palms, neck and feet done upon release..
I imagine the London skyline,
grey, grimey an covered in a thick cloud of smoke..
I can taste the morning air..
It's cool, crisp air that i can feel entering my lungs like
a glass of cold ice water on a hot summer afternoon..
I see the my breath leaving my body,
like a cloud of thick smoke that takes with it all the dust,
dirt and horse shit i've had to inhale the last few years..
I can feel each bead of sweat dripping from my forehead,
each individual muscle stretching and expanding,
the gravel underneath my knuckles as i lift my chest from the floor,
it's a very vivid image that i carry with me..
The accuracy and realistic expectations of this fantasy are questionable.
But it's a nice image never the less..
"Only in the darkest of night can you see the stars" - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr
There's a lot of condensation on my window,
so much so i can't see anything.
Not the street below..
The pavement..
Trees..
Buildings..
Hookers..
Nothing.
I can just about squeeze my fingers
through the bars on the window.
My fingertips relish the cold touch of the glass,
sometimes i try drawing shapes or words and watch
the drips of water run down the window pane..
I can't see anything out the window,
but it's okay though.
Faint blurry lights somehow make their way upto my cell,
golden light from the street lamps below.
Sometimes i try to imagine the view outside might have changed,
asif i'm on some kind of boat that's docked in a small town somewhere..
I'm lying on my side.
One arm is at a right angle supporting my head,
the other clutching my blue biro pen.
My eyes are squinting at the paper,
reading glasses in the dark is not a good look.
My ultra nerd prison issue glasses are not a good look
in any situation but that's besides the point.
My mum and dad sent me a couple pads of paper (thankyou x)
so i'm doing my best to put them to good use.
It's hard right now as the page is barely lit
and my attempts to manouvre it to catch a bit more
of the street light below is not working very well..
The shaky hand holding my head has given up..
Relocated..
Taken up a new, less responsible vocation,
clutching the top of the page as i move closer
to the pad to get a little more clarity.
My words are becoming increasingly mumbled,
almost undecipherable, as they leak from my brain
onto the paper.
Things often pop in and out of my head
at this time of the morning.
If i don't write them down,
they rarely come back to me.
For some reason if i manage to catch the thought,
i always feel better about it in the morning.
Asif the act of writing it down,
making the decision to blindly dig through the piles of paper,
magazines, cumrags and letters at the end of my bed instead of just going the fuck to sleep,
has some kind of significant importance or validity..
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