I use to be his tool...boy I was such a fool...cuz he hit an urban school and discovered a little newness...the beats..the breaks...the sound of the 808s seems the poor boy discovered hip hop music he slowly begins to lose it...from paintbrush and pastels to spraycans and ink pens he thinks in a different hue from the color he used to see in...portraits they turn to graffiti...and now he's constantly beating...on the table tops "tap tap tap" his poetry has turned to rap his tones are harsh and vibrant...instead of smooth and violet...from silent calm and peaceful to rowdy rough and violent...he paints but its just not the same...he pays me no attention his spray can held in one hand I can only help but listen...as he freestyles to the nothingness...just the quiet beat of an urban street...gun shots sirens children cryin...flatfoots told to beat their feet....I stop..I weep...I realize the artistry it still survives....but no one every loves an artist....well that is until we die
4/18/09
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