But what does it mean?
Reality is bullshit when your life is a dream
Mean, fiend, I don't give a fuck
I give my life to Uncle Sam so he can take off my cuffs.
The rhythm and the rhyme, some might call it hip hop
I call it the eyewitness account of the doped up
Strange, callous, and Un foreseen, that so called hip hop can unite black and white while still making green
I don't even like the bullshit lyrics I only like the beats
Seldom is Nas fear of death reproduced in the city that never sleeps
So I mind my time, I mind myself, its dangerous for a kid from the suburbs to get opinions from somebody else.
Yet the music flows through us and with its weight it reminds
The whole country that black lives matter and there is more than race that divides.
So here I am walking around with the camera angle behind me
The hip hop drops in the background as I distract myself
Looking for the beat as I ignore my math problems
This won't rhyme nor should it
My stream of consciousness is not a stream that flows rhythmically
It's violent and sudden like the guitar lick of the beat
It goes in and out as I go in and out of work
Rhyming ideas as the prophets rhymed lies
I still believe in God despite evangelical alibis
If only I had a cigarette
I hate smoking but it does look cool
All the good writers smoked
None of them drank water like I do
I can just see myself now
A black and white portrait
The cigarette held like a finely tuned pen
The grey smoke lashing across my face
Smoke that floats like my head in the clouds,
I have to end this poem...
The road on which my life began
The road was damp but I walked outside anyway
My head was heavy, hungover, but the cool wind set a soothing sensation over me.
I turn on my phone, the music plays as I run. The droplets of water caressing my face.
I shouldn't be so happy. The Blues in my ear seeps into my heart.
I stop, panting for breath.
It was all simple a second ago yet now I hung to the side of the road heaving.
Cars whisk past fast- forward.
It was all simple yet I'm lost. I turned back, I couldn't see my house.
I looked ahead, the fog consuming my vision.
Each breath was a year, each drop of water a wasted moment.
"Well I can't go back, and I can't stay here."
I look ahead. My hair ran grey and black from the fog and rain.
I let out one last breath.
I walk forward, into...
To think it has been a decade since a bomb exploded in England, with its debris only grazing the coasts of America in the form of "AM". A decade since a group of English teenagers cut through the garbage of mid-noughties post punk with an album as catchy as it is honest. Guitar riffs that attack like machine gun fire and lyrics that provide the clarity in a pre-constructed concept of a small bar in northern England.
The Artic Monkeys immortal "Whatever People Say I Am, That's what I'm Not" first bolted out of the UK as the then quickest selling album in British history. The charm and grit of their first two singles "Fake Tales of San Francisco" and "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" opened the doors for the public at large to buy and then celebrate their debut album. Interwoven amongst this chaotic poetry of the dullness and quirks of attending an...