To: Survivor’s Remorse from LETTER
Promethazine ain’t got nothing on selling dreams…
…
Vibrantly painting pictures…
As if I painted my own life…
Here’s my job, here’s my car, there’s my house, that’s my wife…
Get my degree, then I’m grown…
Cash a check, pay a loan…
Write a poem, then a song…
Write a book, buy a phone…
…
And then phone home to all my homies that I left behind…
Childhood friendships end up in lost and founds like all the time…
Surviving the porch…
Surviving the stoop…
The juice, the booth, the loot, the coupes, the oops, the roofs, the tools…
…
This is the revenge for the dreamers…
This a stabilizer for the leaners…
And I ain’t tryna sell out arenas…
Cause I don’t want nothing to come between us…