Disciple's Eyes

I am a disciple, a master in the art of tribal survival that is these streets. In need of a money seed, to plant and grow a money tree. Maybe then, I could get these police to quit eyeballing me. Here race knows no bounds. As bounds know no race. Yet, race isn't the issue in this race to outlive. They say serve and protect, but I suspect another motive. Forced to lie at night with a glock cocked and locked, full clip and hollow tips across my heart. My middle finger itching and twitching with a level of paranoia that tears me apart. Ride at night with me and see the police crawl from every crack and crevasse. Confide in who you might and prey they dont find that four-five under that arm rest. Its easy to see these five-oh dont know I wash these hands. As Im pulled over and searched for drugs of the cocaine brand. If its not one thing its another, gangsters killing each other over color. Drug deals and the theft of automobeals. Crack heads and dead ends. Dreaming puts a price on your head. Get your head in the clouds and, bang bang, your dead. Going so far as to wait in a car outside. Ambitions halted with my enivitable demise. Word spreads like wild fire when sight of my desire erupts. So now its down to me versus the "to serve and corrupt". Its not what you eat. You are what you see in this city. Become what your surrounded by. Like it or not, undone by what your grounded by. Ive seen more than I could ever get any pen to bleed onto a single piece of paper. And Im determined to fulfill my need to bleed it all before I'm off to meet my maker. These are the streets as seen through the eyes of a disciple.