Dry Leaves – Demetrius

Suicide on my mental,
 I’m shooting at the mirror.
 If you standing in my way
 When I spray,
 You get cleared.
  
 Westside,
 Twigs and leaves,
 I hear those footsteps near.
 If “click click” ain't crickets,
 You may disappear.
  
 Run,
 Niggas don’t give a fucks.
 Bammas trynna press buttons
 And hit self-destruct.
  
 Get Blown,
 Dyin’ alone.
 Meanwhile we wildin’
 Loading up wit vinyl gloves.
  
 Tyrell frowns looking down
 To what sent him up above.
What had us crying on the floor;
The ignorance we ignore.

As child, I read the Bible
And learned to even up the score.

You bring two
We bring four
You bring six
We bring more

Boy, I'd hate to have to let this shit pour...




Written By Shawn Demetrius Price
Published by Golden Mile Studios - All Rights Reserved



Photo by Shawn Demetrius Price

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