An ill reggae beat with Lauryn Hill on the hook...
good green to the head,
and getting all caught up in a true crime book.
My nieces when they smile,
my mom when she cries...
those fucked up situations,
when somebody close dies.
Larenz Tate in boxers and a beater...
short beards and short hair,
when someone you adore,
admits that they care.
Nelly's "new" body, Maxwell's voice with Nas' face
him all up in...
my sexy personal space.
White Nike Airs or
a beat up Mazda with a black eye...
lips on my back, his breath on my neck
...the funk in my right thigh.
My Mom's homemade stromboli,
and freshly painted toe nails...
letters and cards from friends,
and I'm not talking about e-mails.
Poetry and music,
those who carry themselves with pride...
"The Color Purple" and "Love Jones",
persistence says I tried.
The alarm clock at 6:20 am,
long hot baths in candlelight...
live boxing matches and packed basketball courts,
when kids who did wrong, want to do right.
Poverty and senseless violence,
slow jams with soul...
hip hop with heart,
and when the weather turns cold.
Pretty green jade and men who cry...
and when the kids constantly ask me, "Why, Titi, why?!"
Smoke free restaurants,
and sparkly clean bathrooms...
the way it looks up Lemon Hill,
when it's just us and the moon.
Long sentences for hustlers,
our justice system isn't fair...
war sucks and we don't need it,
child molesters deserve the chair.
Postcards and photos,
the Legend Bob Marley...
when someone who's done you wrong,
apologizes and is truly sorry.
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