[NYCSPITZ]

ayo,

He's playing marco polo in a minefield...
designing life according to the archetypes that his mind fields
smothered by mother love; she's seaside now, estranged on a coast
-how could you ever function normal when you're chained to a ghost?
Ice grillin', anima blocked in any portrait or smiles
fucking dysfunctional women with some happy ending whores on the dial
but none of it seems to quell that nagging sense of defeat
...his own feminine side - blocked by mom's eminent steez
- she wrote elegant powerful prose like Joan Didion did
The word inherited...he holds it in this glittering pen
He's fifteen. Meditating by the river's eastern breath
writing another sixteen while wishing mom a peaceful rest
a silent homage - but how's he gonna get it all together now?
in sorrow, reverence and gratitude. but he's feeling so tethered down
a dream recurs - it's plain enough yet crass and humbling
angels smile from the balcony, but these facts befuddle him -
curtains drawn: he transforms to a black republican...
- he wakes up lazily, he's smoking doobies again
gears grinding, deciphering the dreams' luminous ken
"you're limitless, and healed now: get to moving this pen"
Memorabilia scattered everywhere, this nigga's frozen in time
Clone of a gift. Clone of a spirit, the clone of a mind
but life's treasures come after walking those desolate yards
guided perhaps, but only his will can crest to the stars
He's not even black - but this dream keeps coming with looming intent
Sitting alone in his room justifying shit, perusing his zen
he hears it from the depths:
you're limitless and healed now - get to moving this pen



.