They wonder of my culture, the way we act, the mirror we land, so mean.
It’s complex, sex is immortal, racing up mountains.
Genetic poverty!
Made rich on pure talent.
Most desire a turned-out life: to never give a care, to puff, pop pills, to drink, to snort. Never to feel present, on a secret, something scentless.
Most upon features, most medicated. They watch my culture: How many rules on my culture? I adore my culture.
Something happened to us.
Make it soul, blues, jazz, ink, literature, rap, more music.
Something intricate takes place: a soul becomes a spirit, a certain thought to it.
Indicative gems, swag jewelry, they keep developing younger.
Savage hearts, never cared, hiding from my gut; needing what can’t exist, at a cave of warriors, we try to adore Love, something desires destruction, drumbeats, tribal, we make new rules, if to exist.
Untold millions, and we yearn towards deaths.
All the yenning, all the memories, uncomfortable inside, facing ambivalence.
