Not A Spectators' Game (Fifty-One Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) July 4, 2017

So, my wife asked me, “Why haven’t you been writing?” 

“I thought about that just yesterday as a matter of fact,” I said.

“What did you come up with?” She asked

“I’m still thinking about that query,” I said.

“Well, I like to read. Just telling you,” she said.

…And I guess the answer to the question is, “What the fuck can I write, say, declare…that would make any fuckin difference in this fucked up world today?” 

I mean shit!  You go to sleep one day; wake up; and a whole nother fucked up anecdote to add to all the other ill anecdotes that have been accumulating at an absurd maniacal speed.

 

Confused?  Shit doesn’t even come close!  The fuck goin on with this existence, with US?  It’s like I am witnessing a slow motion head-on, dead-on carnage filled collision that will be like no other ever witnessed!  I want to stop it…but how can I with my grain of sand ass?

 

Like everybody, lookin at those goddamned stupid ass cell phones that they cannot take their eyes off of those silly screens all the goddamned fuckin time, I too have become a spectator to this life without knowing how to enter the damn human game to make a fuckin difference!  But I must get out of the bleachers and enter this game of life before it's over!

Cause this fifty-one to nil shit just ain’t gonnah work!  Yah heard may?  On the real, My Dear Sweet Sistahs and Brothahs!

More to come...