This is my hustle. This is my struggle. You do what you got to do. Some people, bread is bought at the butt of a gun. Boys running a con, peddling that white powder. I’m not about that white powder. I’m not about that life, know what happens to girls with soft hands and a small mouth in prison? I do not and I will not find out.
I like my cons skin on skin. Be a gangsta, that’s right, get shot. I’m going to lie on my back and meditate. Then I’ll walk down the street and self medicate. This work is in the shadows, dark corners where good men do bad things. Dusk weighs heavy, time to pack up my soul, and hide it away.
Dawn is a foggy mist, it brings rest, a fallen woman’s redemption.
Better than broke. Better than missus. I wear a scarlet letter, make good men do bad things. Me and my tight little bread maker.