Sometimes words aren't enough to suffice,
This ridiculous feeling that seems to trend,
As times seem weary, I feel I should just take the advice,
Of this feeling of being at the end.
The Story begins as such;
---
We see each other from across,
The red lights brighten,
We both seem frighten,
Our fist some how tighten,
We scream in agonizing pain,
Breath in the passionate sane,
Paired together we saw a lane,
The green light faded,
The yellow one traded,
For life and threat,
Death wasn't ever set in this hollow bet,
This failed accuracy of main,
Street; followed in an alley on blades,
A skated fellow paid,
Extinguished fire,
This blade was an empire,
He saw himself for what was aid,
What was played,
This life against cash,
This money seemed to be the reason,
That we all smoke hash,
Don't take it the wrong,
But by the end we were gone.
---
The End;
This fairly seems as a loss,
But more of a suffrage I was put through,
That had made remembered of the times of trust.
"MOB; Money Over Bitches."
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