Going. Home. 

Long roads, city lights 
A heavy heart and empty eyes 

trips back home were filled with joy 

now, I rehearse verses like drill sergents – step out of line and I’ll tongue slice you.

Hope the people near me don’t take it per-son-al-ly 

I have verses I need to sort through, no room to converse 

Because trips back home are like facing the front-line, nigger stand your ground and prepare for combat 

I’m a hipster. I have no place here, now watch me leave

Leave and never ever come back – the anchor on my heart

Warm muffins and rhajar in the air, honey aromas replaced with bitter emptiness and nameless faces, and gun pointing with words firing And maybe I die this time, as this was my last trip home 

The final blood bath. 

And the roads shorten as I leave. 


One thought on “Going. Home. 

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