Can’t do anything, secluded, lost in traffic, and
father was a wolf; so great the demon, anxious at the door, fists balled the race
up; the first to live, the last to die, at luxury to eat skies; another at
crumbling, another at mushrooms, I never could fly. Such is war, much a core
broken, Love was confused, and misread souls. The guillotine boils, referred by
God, to sacrifice his only son. Spaced out, to point it out, it seems ironic to
cave out; caught that morning, out that evening, the life of 2pac. A woman
wanted his soul, his guts, manufacturing hostilities; feuding inside, pushing
up daisies, a space in memories—the chase in the passion, the warrant in the
magic, plus, Love is a down low creature. I stopped hoping for exclusivity, I settle
more on facts, not many can handle love—the smoosh, the mooch, the fame of
adoring the mysticism, and Love would exonerate God.
