Random Incidents of Pain (R.I.P.)

RANDOM INCIDENTS OF PAIN (R.I.P)

 

I been tested

I been...

Tried by fire

I been buried alive

Beneath the rubbish of

Filthy books

Tested by filthy looks

I been a crook

A cronie

A little homie

Ditching school

Cuz I hated trying to sit

Still

No longer believing

In make believe

My mind on fire

First time I ever knew the devil's

Temptation

Too many nightmares

These days its hard to dream

Wasn't long ago that

Fantasized about childhood

Play back home in New Orleans

Frustrated cuz I was

Trapped between 79th street

and Queen

Came here blindfolded

My eyes duck taped to fairy tales

Cali snatched that

tape clean from my eyes

I still feel the antagonizing

Sting of it

Every time I let my mind wander

Through the enchanted forrest

Of childhood memories

I only see the shadows

Had to find out the hard way

Niggas out here careless about

Life holding death hostage with

Three letters blasted on a cross street wall

R.

I.

P.

Rest in Pieces of parchment

Broken memories

And tired war stories We

Rest in pieces of bitter memories

Remembering how much unlike our

Mother's son we have become

Dead homies

Remembering the time moms sat next to us in our hospital bed

Lying silent

condition critical

The first time violence

ever came into the home

At 14

We celebrate death like

A birthday lost in three letters

R.

I.

P.

A young man growing old

Wasting away like a malnourished tree

Blindfolded by ignorance

No wonder we can't see

The dreaded screech of wailing sirens

No wonder our ears are deafened to the truth of it all

I have buried a lost soldier

Adolescent stick up kid shit

The homies paralyzed by grief

Dolla died at the hands of his own

Relative

Where we live life strangles the future

With bob wire and steel wool

It only takes a little brillow

To filter the horn

That way we can watch death

Burn slowly before

We take that last blast and then

R.

I.

P.

I hear the clash

Of dull steal

From the sound of sherif badges

Scraped against the concrete

Justice always seem$ to get stepped on

Protection always scarce

Why prevent violence, when violence protects you from the unemployment line?

Subsequently

We

Rest In Pieces of charred glass

Falling from the ceiling of the facade

Niggas out here careless about

Life holding death hostage with

Three letters blasted on a cross street wall

R.

I.

P.

Rest in Pieces of parchment

Broken memories

And tired war stories We

Rest in pieces of bitter memories

Remembering how much unlike our

Mother's sons we have become

Carryin guns in the 4th Grade

The homie son already know

How to weigh a gram

Daddy proud his boy

Already got that hustle in him

No use to fight the truth

The devil already winnin'

More than likely we all sinnin in some

Way

Just that in this urban climate

Young folk be victims of gun play

Most of em only know one way

And some may not know at all

Following blindly

Until

R.

I.

P.