Street Poet
• Written by ItsTheory
ItsTheory's Notes
Street poetry, inspired by the God Nas's album Illmatic, A.K.A. the classic hip-hop bible.
Crack dealers on the block, young niggas will tamper weed,
snipers on the rooftops with guns, triggers plant the seed,
I feel healthy with weed smoke and an ox up under my sheep coat,
more phillies than Pete Rose, I'm Southern but on the East Coast,
we see stars and jack whips, police cars are like beasts though,
we're loading up the Tecs, getting vexed, keep the streets closed,
loaded rifles, dealers ready to take lead straight,
they be pushing more drug pounds than K-Fed's weight,
they gotta be ready on call with the base head's weight,
and young people tryna make a name got straight cred hate,
sittin' up in project hallways, crankin' bass, smokin' bones,
playin' cee-lo, rolling dice, and talkin' on their mobile phones,
drinkin' 40's, whippin' shit, and talkin' shit, their overtones,
of language will suggest if they're hard and they own the throne,
lonely roads, the windy breeze, crackheads out cold alone,
while I'm expressing thoughts of hip-hop from my golden dome,
see I'm never home alone, test me and I'll load the chrome,
and hold it so it's on-point, then beat you 'till your broken bones,
are laying out in front of me, but anyways, we're roses grown,
from concrete, and up on streets, we got more of chromosomes,
I'm supposed to flow and so I'm dope, I rap for broken homes,
ghettos and kids that roam the globe, patrol like a soldier known,
smokin' bowls of dope, but still these heads will choke and coke,
rappers talk shit, they got no lines like cordless mobile phones,
I guess that it's supposed to be, express that in my poetry,
my rhymes inside my brain ain't sane, still they're close to me,
so Catholics hold your rosaries, Baptists pray and roll the weed,
smoke the trees like forest fires, they provide a golden fleece,
opposing me, that's supposed to be the method socially,
surviving and we're thriving on Ramen noodles, frozen peas,
tough streets, Section 8 inside the public housing projects,
rough weeks, and teenagers would kill for arousing prospects,
complex are their theories and their views, the metal speaks,
but that's the way it goes when you're raised on ghetto streets,
meanwhile the rich kids are buyin' kush on different shit,
my homies, they just lift and sniff, whiff when splittin' spliffs,
the middle class suburban kids are cryin', and slittin' wrists,
kicks, chips, whips, flicks, chicks will make the missiles hit,
the phrase the pays inside the streets is sharp is razor blades,
they bumping, playin' racist tapes, yo we all make mistakes,
but sometimes in the ghetto see it's hard to move it up and down,
especially with stomach growls, absent dads, thunder pounds,
single mothers doing crack and drinkin', it's the hunger sounds,
that plague the families, lack of structure, it's a dumping ground,
they can't take the stress and blaze the cess, streets are rough,
you'd make a mess if shit was dangerous, on knees in cuffs,
I guess that's the way it is, why is that supposed to be?
Well never know, but it ain't hard to tell, my street poetry
Feedback & Comments
About the Artist
ItsTheory
Member since January 5 2014