rest in poetry, trayvon martin.

Cuatro

This is not for shorties who sit silently hands folded

Who lovingly smile at the camera

This is for the wannabe who screams

He is shuttling his soul to smoke loudly

Declaring death is inevitable and tomorrow

Might be his last so why would he wait

On the world when he can grab it from any victim

Obviously fuck the system

When your projects is prisons

Playground is the yard where they swear

They never believed in God because

He never had the time to listen to their dreams

Congregate 10 deep on one bluntville

To simply scheme and steam

Never capture any confidence condensation

Teachers condescend trying to relate

Understand plight of underclass

Wondering why this talented young man

Never comes to class

This is for powerful potential

Muffled explosions of deferred dreams

Dark shots that won’t ever reveal the light

Hoodies hiding hope for holy moments

Where their life stories mattered and triumph

Actually recognized so that they would be proud

Of their god given names not saying

Damn why you blowing up my government

Call me E Burna or Slugga or Trigga or Banga

Or Gutta or Lil Something or Big Nothing

This is for aliases becoming the character

That has been created for you highly improbable

Reality customized to shape your actions

Accordingly to the substandards of keeping it wrong

In vain attempts to garner more props or stripes

So occasions where you put in twirk

Could add on to your ample rugged resume

Seeking approval from OGs who told you

To hold heat so they wouldn’t get in trouble

This is for hustling not to stack but to keep

The corner with miserable company and puff for free

Easily distracted to crack or pop

Won’t stop the grind to build each block

Every hood into organized nations self sufficient

To believe in prosperous futures we should be living

This is love for little brothers scrambling

Tagging to see who is it

Still searching for do overs when the hood

Missed your perfect pitch

Or greatest crossover

With the weight of universe on shoulders

Constructing those chips

Into a monument of your greatness

Rather than a tenement of fuck shit