brooklyn's september.

in a world where every player is a boss
and all marriages end in divorce
and you don't really have drive
unless you drive a porsche
of course
it's easy to feel when you stand out
you come up short
so many fights i've fought
so many times i've lost
too proud to ask when it'll stop
too foolish to know what
I'm even giving my all for.
The love of a woman
The respect from a crowd
The acceptance of nay-sayers
my hands are often clasped together
in the hope i'll think of a decent prayer
one day i'll strive to be something better
because all i want is
the acceptance from nay-sayers
the respect of a bunch of clappers
The legs of Jasmine Kara
It's been a year and i still love her
from across new york,
they'd save up money to see her
by day lap-dancer at night soul singer
never a day she didn't have her shit together
small in height, but filled out just right
her beauty came from her love for life
she had nyc tattooed on her neck
we watched friends on her laptop
snuggled together on her single bed
never have i had so much respect for a person i had just met
she sung to let out the pain, it was never about fame
it's been a year now and i don't see things the same
i see every player trying to be a boss
but they never know what to be a boss of,
soul singers singing porcelain songs, hollow with no gospel
i see people dying to drive a porsche with nowhere to drive to
i stop relationships before they start because i've been so tainted
from the knowledge that they all seem to run the same course
it's a world where no one does what they do for love
it's a reality game show for who's the biggest pretender
and every artist wants to shout on how they're "not"
how they're "real" but still secretly hoping their reality
will actually take them to the top.
it's enough to make a talented artist want to stop.

thank god I'm not going to.
these thoughts will be sold
babyface eyes with an old soul
in a search to grow so i'll no longer come up feeling short
one day i'll make enough money to say "next stop, new york."