From the roughest part of Harlem, to where love for stardom is the star. Hollywood from the hood. I got it good. I got it. I'm living. Not as good as the people who been droppin the writtens that I been plottin with. I'm kinda wishing I could be living with them, but I don't really give a damn. Once again. Jumping in with my assumptions can end a conversation. As well as business. And I've been making business swell with interest. Pissing them off was getting me by and getting me off, but now when I sit in the office talking, I gotta wonder if they listen to me as a boss.
My reflections come from my dialect that I accept has been tainted by the dangerous-ness I would stay with, hoping that the day would begin. Praying and shit. Maybe there is a God, because I've been living odd. If I find out that he does exist, he can get in the pod of I, and play his tunes. Make it known, then make it noon. The brightest days. The highest haze. Wait for a while, while I'm awake. Making me smile is the kind of patience I have. Why is it all about me? Because only I make me climax. I can't trust another chick, because my heart has been guarded like the government was in it. But fuck it.
I'd rather be in tune with my mastery and being the majesty of a few, than to be ruining the mood of the room. Because of the hue. Green. Hugh Hefner in the nude scene. Knowing what to do, but choosing has me "at" me. Like "I need a response and people to watch". The Twitter reference might be from the pot, but you don't need me to stop. Jesus it's hot. Ridiculous, isn't it? Listen to the sentences. Giving a shit about dividends wasn't the past, but fuck it. It's in this glass.
God has not come down.
I am not around.
It's a rainy day, and I just want to sleep.
But I pray...
~follow the buzzards~