April 7, 2019

If my reach could preach to the world,

We’d be in the last fighting days of lost girls.

Fought for by failing fathers; who know their mothers watch.

Now from above, like she too was a little girl who fought.

When refusing to fight, we make up shit in fear and fright.

Withholding a beast to peak.

Ignoring our muse who seeks.

Solutions from an everlasting leap.

But that’s not the answer.

See where the last fight got us?

Cancer.

Eating for anxiety’s banter.

You’re not reading a negro from the ghetto.

Maybe a negro fighting for the ghetto.

Writing to the ghetto.

Running through the ghetto.

The real ones say, “hello”.

What a fine young fello’.

Little would they know, I’m fresh from this coast.

Best tap into Oregon’s H20.

PDX folk only know.

Oregrown, #AMWriting from here.

I am so rare.

Unlikely to be known.

Just watch, don’t stare.

I don’t care…

-Budd