I've always possessed a type of an inertia state of mind,
Since When Harry Met Sally, or since circa eighty nine.
When I was a boy, I quickly learned to safely climb
ladders down life's tainted roads, an encouraged race of time.
She flourished, flawless beauty had me staying awake at night.
Feel nourished, worried that her image might soon escape my eyes.
I'm placing my age at five, when she truly misplaced the signs
of our true love. I want to run away but I was too afraid to hide.
I cried.
Mom sighed, "Jacob, Amy moved to a big and new place that's nice.
Boys don't cry, you'll find a new girl at the right place and time."
By the age of fifteen I was out of school and soon I wrote raps
about thugs, crack, love and all that. It was cool. A gold match
with a vocal tax. A drive in my life, all I was ever really told lacked
any truth or cold facts. Music was there for my whole crash.
When I hit that rocky bottom, I had my soul snatched
by the devil's own pack. Hiphop and rap were my road map.
I took pictures of these times, my pops helped frame the kodak.
Two years later, Nas had turned my whole life into a throwback.
I cried.
Mom said, "Jacob, hiphop is dead, thought you should know that.
Boys don't cry, you'll find a new way to rid of your lone trap.
I miss the food she cooked, I haven't ate with her in years.
Not knowing who she is anymore takes a worse turn for fear.
With no map to guide me, I smoked weed and purchased beer
to ease any tensions. Sorry if my words aren't worded clear.
The pain is stagnant, happiness was the only murdered peer.
I just wish I could hold her again and say, "curse the years!"
I cried.
The devil looked me in my eyes, "Your 3 loves are gone.
Boys don't cry, you'll soon find a new love and trust it long."
I told him, "My girl, my music, my mom. This stress is tough.
Boys don't cry, but men do. When they have nothing left to love.