Consequence

This is for the boy who was lost. Dark Life, Muddied Soul. Murda! Murda! Just a consequence of a thug life, Troubled by a dilemma oppressing a culture. The strife of a black boy trying to become all but a representation of a color. A slave to the nameless bullets ricocheting off brick buildings beckoning to consume Life! You’ve watched bloodshed, drained, eyes going from knowing the darkness of the world to knowing What it is to be buried six feet under. Got you wondering when the grim reaper will come to collect your soul? But you ain’t ready to Lay dead in a coffin for the world to weep. I see you crying out, Brown eyes mirroring pain. The struggle in the creases that outline your face, Bags under your eyes from sleepless nights. But only for a second do you let yourself be vulnerable, You light your blunt, Eyes go icy cold as you take a deep inhale of the potent Kush, No longer are you the victim to the emotions that’ll consume you. Murda! Murda! In a world aimed to knock you to your knees, Begging God for mercy, But it’s too late, You lay lifeless in the middle of the street, Gasping for air in a pile of blood that is surrounding you. Your heart pumping, Slower, Slower, Then no more. Murda! Murda! You suffer no more, the consequence of being born to a thug life came to deliver its final message.