These things that the conscious self had shattered.
I’m looking into an 8×3 pine box, into a close mind of a grey corpse, seeing its memories as if they were mine. My thoughts are to refine these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
It seems now it doesn’t matter, this body laying cold and lifeless resting somberly on a bed of red roses. “This soul once lived in desolation, but had the finer things in life like linen, along with it came suffering. Yet, this soul would ask itself when living, “have I ever known pain?”
Like his mother when she watched his father get shot dead by her lover oh the pain he saw in her eyes, like other pains she tries not to memorize. Or perhaps like the destruction that occurred when his best friends ex girlfriend caught the itch, been sleeping with too many niggas her bodies started to twitch, after a while she felt cold and lifeless. Longing for someone to love she born two kids, now the oldest one is selling the stuff to her, high as a bird yet stuck in the stage of the caterpillar, cause she has no wings to fly.
His best friend? Hate to be imposing but he was not better than lust either. Politican with the fellas, smoking beadies, drinking 8 ball and Hennessy. He is always looking at fine women, looking fine himself he always just wants to dine with them. This puppy gets caught in the worst situations almost got capped twice for going after highest temptation, while lacing his hookers up with rollies and dime bags, one day they can to that niggas crib to crash only to see this turned out pussy getting done in the ass.
These things don’t last..
Also, this soul gives me visions of lovers and other sheisty individuals trying to get the better of it. My minds eye starts to cry as I witness the way his family tears itself apart and divide like rivals. Giving up his title to the streets he runs to a place with the likeness of Calcutta. Stricken poor and now at deaths door, running from revengeful bullet shots, grazing, gazing down the barrel of a clocked glot. Ready to die his mind gets hot with treason. Leaving the streets behind, tired of being inches close to death. “This man needs to unwind, but to heal old wounds the truth is it takes time, something that he does not have. Seconds later he gets shot in the head. Now gasping for breath with life flashing, and no chance yet to survive. One thing is for sure he has been ready to die since the tender age of nine. All the while he is meditating on these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
These things that the conscious self had shattered.
I’m looking into an 8×3 pine box, into a close mind of a grey corpse, seeing its memories as if they were mine. My thoughts are to refine these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
It seems now it doesn’t matter, this body laying cold and lifeless resting somberly on a bed of red roses. “This soul once lived in desolation, but had the finer things in life like linen, along with it came suffering. Yet, this soul would ask itself when living, “have I ever known pain?”
Like his mother when she watched his father get shot dead by her lover oh the pain he saw in her eyes, like other pains she tries not to memorize. Or perhaps like the destruction that occurred when his best friends ex girlfriend caught the itch, been sleeping with too many niggas her bodies started to twitch, after a while she felt cold and lifeless. Longing for someone to love she born two kids, now the oldest one is selling the stuff to her, high as a bird yet stuck in the stage of the caterpillar, cause she has no wings to fly.
His best friend? Hate to be imposing but he was not better than lust either. Politican with the fellas, smoking beadies, drinking 8 ball and Hennessy. He is always looking at fine women, looking fine himself he always just wants to dine with them. This puppy gets caught in the worst situations almost got capped twice for going after highest temptation, while lacing his hookers up with rollies and dime bags, one day they can to that niggas crib to crash only to see this turned out pussy getting done in the ass.
These things don’t last..
Also, this soul gives me visions of lovers and other sheisty individuals trying to get the better of it. My minds eye starts to cry as I witness the way his family tears itself apart and divide like rivals. Giving up his title to the streets he runs to a place with the likeness of Calcutta. Stricken poor and now at deaths door, running from revengeful bullet shots, grazing, gazing down the barrel of a clocked glot. Ready to die his mind gets hot with treason. Leaving the streets behind, tired of being inches close to death. “This man needs to unwind, but to heal old wounds the truth is it takes time, something that he does not have. Seconds later he gets shot in the head. Now gasping for breath with life flashing, and no chance yet to survive. One thing is for sure he has been ready to die since the tender age of nine. All the while he is meditating on these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
These things that the conscious self had shattered.
I’m looking into an 8×3 pine box, into a close mind of a grey corpse, seeing its memories as if they were mine. My thoughts are to refine these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
It seems now it doesn’t matter, this body laying cold and lifeless resting somberly on a bed of red roses. “This soul once lived in desolation, but had the finer things in life like linen, along with it came suffering. Yet, this soul would ask itself when living, “have I ever known pain?”
Like his mother when she watched his father get shot dead by her lover oh the pain he saw in her eyes, like other pains she tries not to memorize. Or perhaps like the destruction that occurred when his best friends ex girlfriend caught the itch, been sleeping with too many niggas her bodies started to twitch, after a while she felt cold and lifeless. Longing for someone to love she born two kids, now the oldest one is selling the stuff to her, high as a bird yet stuck in the stage of the caterpillar, cause she has no wings to fly.
His best friend? Hate to be imposing but he was not better than lust either. Politican with the fellas, smoking beadies, drinking 8 ball and Hennessy. He is always looking at fine women, looking fine himself he always just wants to dine with them. This puppy gets caught in the worst situations almost got capped twice for going after highest temptation, while lacing his hookers up with rollies and dime bags, one day they can to that niggas crib to crash only to see this turned out pussy getting done in the ass.
These things don’t last..
Also, this soul gives me visions of lovers and other sheisty individuals trying to get the better of it. My minds eye starts to cry as I witness the way his family tears itself apart and divide like rivals. Giving up his title to the streets he runs to a place with the likeness of Calcutta. Stricken poor and now at deaths door, running from revengeful bullet shots, grazing, gazing down the barrel of a clocked glot. Ready to die his mind gets hot with treason. Leaving the streets behind, tired of being inches close to death. “This man needs to unwind, but to heal old wounds the truth is it takes time, something that he does not have. Seconds later he gets shot in the head. Now gasping for breath with life flashing, and no chance yet to survive. One thing is for sure he has been ready to die since the tender age of nine. All the while he is meditating on these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
These things that the conscious self had shattered.
I’m looking into an 8×3 pine box, into a close mind of a grey corpse, seeing its memories as if they were mine. My thoughts are to refine these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
It seems now it doesn’t matter, this body laying cold and lifeless resting somberly on a bed of red roses. “This soul once lived in desolation, but had the finer things in life like linen, along with it came suffering. Yet, this soul would ask itself when living, “have I ever known pain?”
Like his mother when she watched his father get shot dead by her lover oh the pain he saw in her eyes, like other pains she tries not to memorize. Or perhaps like the destruction that occurred when his best friends ex girlfriend caught the itch, been sleeping with too many niggas her bodies started to twitch, after a while she felt cold and lifeless. Longing for someone to love she born two kids, now the oldest one is selling the stuff to her, high as a bird yet stuck in the stage of the caterpillar, cause she has no wings to fly.
His best friend? Hate to be imposing but he was not better than lust either. Politican with the fellas, smoking beadies, drinking 8 ball and Hennessy. He is always looking at fine women, looking fine himself he always just wants to dine with them. This puppy gets caught in the worst situations almost got capped twice for going after highest temptation, while lacing his hookers up with rollies and dime bags, one day they can to that niggas crib to crash only to see this turned out pussy getting done in the ass.
These things don’t last..
Also, this soul gives me visions of lovers and other sheisty individuals trying to get the better of it. My minds eye starts to cry as I witness the way his family tears itself apart and divide like rivals. Giving up his title to the streets he runs to a place with the likeness of Calcutta. Stricken poor and now at deaths door, running from revengeful bullet shots, grazing, gazing down the barrel of a clocked glot. Ready to die his mind gets hot with treason. Leaving the streets behind, tired of being inches close to death. “This man needs to unwind, but to heal old wounds the truth is it takes time, something that he does not have. Seconds later he gets shot in the head. Now gasping for breath with life flashing, and no chance yet to survive. One thing is for sure he has been ready to die since the tender age of nine. All the while he is meditating on these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
These things that the conscious self had shattered.
I’m looking into an 8×3 pine box, into a close mind of a grey corpse, seeing its memories as if they were mine. My thoughts are to refine these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
It seems now it doesn’t matter, this body laying cold and lifeless resting somberly on a bed of red roses. “This soul once lived in desolation, but had the finer things in life like linen, along with it came suffering. Yet, this soul would ask itself when living, “have I ever known pain?”
Like his mother when she watched his father get shot dead by her lover oh the pain he saw in her eyes, like other pains she tries not to memorize. Or perhaps like the destruction that occurred when his best friends ex girlfriend caught the itch, been sleeping with too many niggas her bodies started to twitch, after a while she felt cold and lifeless. Longing for someone to love she born two kids, now the oldest one is selling the stuff to her, high as a bird yet stuck in the stage of the caterpillar, cause she has no wings to fly.
His best friend? Hate to be imposing but he was not better than lust either. Politican with the fellas, smoking beadies, drinking 8 ball and Hennessy. He is always looking at fine women, looking fine himself he always just wants to dine with them. This puppy gets caught in the worst situations almost got capped twice for going after highest temptation, while lacing his hookers up with rollies and dime bags, one day they can to that niggas crib to crash only to see this turned out pussy getting done in the ass.
These things don’t last..
Also, this soul gives me visions of lovers and other sheisty individuals trying to get the better of it. My minds eye starts to cry as I witness the way his family tears itself apart and divide like rivals. Giving up his title to the streets he runs to a place with the likeness of Calcutta. Stricken poor and now at deaths door, running from revengeful bullet shots, grazing, gazing down the barrel of a clocked glot. Ready to die his mind gets hot with treason. Leaving the streets behind, tired of being inches close to death. “This man needs to unwind, but to heal old wounds the truth is it takes time, something that he does not have. Seconds later he gets shot in the head. Now gasping for breath with life flashing, and no chance yet to survive. One thing is for sure he has been ready to die since the tender age of nine. All the while he is meditating on these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
These things that the conscious self had shattered.
I’m looking into an 8×3 pine box, into a close mind of a grey corpse, seeing its memories as if they were mine. My thoughts are to refine these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
It seems now it doesn’t matter, this body laying cold and lifeless resting somberly on a bed of red roses. “This soul once lived in desolation, but had the finer things in life like linen, along with it came suffering. Yet, this soul would ask itself when living, “have I ever known pain?”
Like his mother when she watched his father get shot dead by her lover oh the pain he saw in her eyes, like other pains she tries not to memorize. Or perhaps like the destruction that occurred when his best friends ex girlfriend caught the itch, been sleeping with too many niggas her bodies started to twitch, after a while she felt cold and lifeless. Longing for someone to love she born two kids, now the oldest one is selling the stuff to her, high as a bird yet stuck in the stage of the caterpillar, cause she has no wings to fly.
His best friend? Hate to be imposing but he was not better than lust either. Politican with the fellas, smoking beadies, drinking 8 ball and Hennessy. He is always looking at fine women, looking fine himself he always just wants to dine with them. This puppy gets caught in the worst situations almost got capped twice for going after highest temptation, while lacing his hookers up with rollies and dime bags, one day they can to that niggas crib to crash only to see this turned out pussy getting done in the ass.
These things don’t last..
Also, this soul gives me visions of lovers and other sheisty individuals trying to get the better of it. My minds eye starts to cry as I witness the way his family tears itself apart and divide like rivals. Giving up his title to the streets he runs to a place with the likeness of Calcutta. Stricken poor and now at deaths door, running from revengeful bullet shots, grazing, gazing down the barrel of a clocked glot. Ready to die his mind gets hot with treason. Leaving the streets behind, tired of being inches close to death. “This man needs to unwind, but to heal old wounds the truth is it takes time, something that he does not have. Seconds later he gets shot in the head. Now gasping for breath with life flashing, and no chance yet to survive. One thing is for sure he has been ready to die since the tender age of nine. All the while he is meditating on these things that the conscious self-had shattered.
URBAN GYPZY 