sour lemons

no rest for the weary, sour as lemon trees

relentlessly creeping the streets, like a

cop patrols his beat.

stomping the streets, with black stains

on the feet. not caring about being discreet

this is the life of a dope man, isn't it neat.

stuffing false hope in the vents of San Quinton

hoping the bars could be bent just once pass the blunt

like a kite, late night fights snatching lies from life.

like a knife that sliced the og, throat sliced he cant breath

as he pleases. broke down to the knees, screaming

please take me.

heroin in the vain claimed the destination, for ever remain

enslaved. bondage and darkness surrounds the aura from

countless blessings in store for us.

angle dust and vodka got me bucking like Baca Baca Baca.

hot like liquid lava, pyroclastic heat stretches like elastic

fantastic plastic supreme dreams are not what they seem.

so it seems there is no rest for the weary, staying sour as lemon trees

and lemon stands. this is the life of the dope man.

Blackhemmingway~2014©