DREAMING
Eyes opened at about seven in the morning. Feeling well-rested, but feeling like something was on a nigga’s chest. Something heavy.
Fuck it.
This was a new day, and I was feeling like a new nigga. Somehow, someway, I was going to erase all these painful memories.
Showered. Feeling fresh. Cologne.
Oh, I smelled so good.
Nothing but the best.
Diamonds on my neck. Drip.
Diamonds on my wrist. Drip.
Diamonds on my pinky. Drip.
I rolled up something that stunk so good, inhaled the weed smoke, held it, then blew it out.
Now I’m stepping so smooth, oh so light, as if a nigga was walking on clouds or something.
Still, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something was weighing on me, trying to pull me down.
So I inhaled deeper and blew the smoke out harder, ’cause somehow these painful memories I needed to erase.
Feeling silky in the finest linens, I jumped in my ride around one.
The skies were clear, and the sun was shining bright. So I dropped the top on that new white-on-white joint.
The sun had my drip on some reflector shit.
I was glistening luxuriously out this motherfucker.
Cruising through the city in my new whip, bumping some gangsta shit.
Bitches staring with lust. They wanna drink my drip.
Niggas staring with hate. They wanna take my shine.
Never that.
This shit on my waist would wake the whole city up. One pull, cock, and squeeze would have everybody ducking the heat.
So I threw the blockers on and leaned the seat back.
Way back.
Like back in the day when the money was funny, the love was hate, and these bitches didn’t see a nigga.
But that was a song for another track.
Of course, I threw up the deuce to the real niggas as I glided through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic like a ghost.
Smooth and light.
But heavy.
Something was still on a nigga’s chest.
But the sun was shining, the music was banging, and all these pretty bitches had a nigga suppressing something painful.
Damn.
Fuck it.
Somehow, these painful memories I needed to erase.
Nightfall.
The stars were out. Niggas were creeping, trying to attack something.
Something like, “Bitch, lets fuck.”
Or bag something.
“Nigga, give me the loot!”
Me? I’m trying to get a bitch to suck something.
“Bitch, stop playing. You know you suck dick.”
I’m trying to get head in the whip and bust all this pain weighing on my chest right out of my dick.
‘Cause somehow, someway, these painful memories I needed to erase.
Then I felt a little drizzle.
OMG.
I’m praying the rain doesn’t fall, ’cause I’m gonna have to convert the drop back to the top.
And it’s too beautiful a night for that.
I scooped a bad bitch, and she was ready to turn into a savage.
But the rain just had to drop.
It was inevitable.
I converted the top.
Now she’s tugging on my pants, trying to get the gun out.
I helped her out and released the beast.
Closed my eyes.
She started licking and sucking on a nigga.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
Something tapped against the tinted window.
I acted like I didn’t hear it.
Grabbed her head so she wouldn’t stop sucking.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The tapping turned into rapid knocking.
I ignored it and held her head tighter.
Then the knocking turned into banging.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I couldn’t resist the urge to spaz the fuck out.
I opened my eyes and turned to see who the fuck was ruining the perfect ending to my beautiful day.
“COUNT TIME!”
A correctional officer stood outside my cell, screaming.
“What?” I asked, groggy and confused.
“Blink an eye! Move a leg! It’s count time, motherfucker!”
I blinked several times.
Then I pinched myself.
A bitter laugh escaped when I realized this was still my reality.
I couldn’t believe this shit.
I was still here.
Still in this miserable-ass prison.
Still doing an L.
The whip. The diamonds. The women. The sunshine.
All a dream.
But these 130 years?
That shit was real.
And this cocksucker had just fucked up my wet dream.
I shook my head.
Guess some painful realities can’t be erased.
The dream may end, but the writing never stops.
If Dreaming made you laugh, think, or feel something, imagine what happens when I put my pain, passion, love, and truth into poetry.
My body may be confined, but my words know no boundaries.
Support my journey. Buy your copy of For Poetry today.
“Get your copy of For Poetry on Amazon” (https://a.co/d/00LtiGlF)
