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My Muse is Sick

Walking pneumonia
it lies, prostrate
with aimless mutterings
of platinum grills, diamonds, tires,
20” rims, hoes giving brain, and
candy mammies.

My Muse is Sick
and oh so tired of heavy bass resonance
with no revolutionary overtones
being demanded by
candy-coated DJs screaming out G-Unit

(Nothing against the man nor his pain, but
not everyone’s been shot, then made it to fame.)

We be average niggas living
meager nigga lives
full of taxes and strife

poem by Barely There
Added by Poetry Lover
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