D’Angelo Was Right (The Past Is Always With Us)
They took away your tower, sent you down
to tighten all the loose screws in the Pit.
It stung, but hey, they’re family—that shit
means something, don’t it? Count the money, clown
around with no one, make that orange couch
your own. These kids don’t have a clue what game
they’re playing—they don’t know the rules, they came
because they had no choice. At night, they crouch
in front of doors that may or may not lead
straight to the stash. Their feet are cold. There’s not
a goddamn reason for this cycle: shots
and pain; betrayal; truce; a hungry greed
for power—more of it—driving these calls
on payphones late at night. You try to tell
the kids about the pawns, but there’s a smell
like endings in the air. Like fall. Brick walls
behind you, bars in front: they tell you to
be strong, to bear the load for family, that
f-word fat with lies. Yeah, you’ll go to bat
for them, as long as they stay straight with you:
Where’s Wallace at? Where’s the boy, String? A dim
lightbulb blinks out. That shit caught up to him.
Tragos HQ will keep endorsing and reblogging these poems as ewilcox writes them.
(via byronic)
