November 4, 2006 (a spoken word piece not fully done and inspired by an experience Safia told me about)
I’m sick of all those bitches that
befriend me because I’m dating a
producer.
I’m tired of those bitches talking to
me because my friends are DJ’s.
Don’t show up at my house because
he’s there,
when I know you only care
for him to acknowledge your existence
without any resistance,
because you worked so hard for that
name, so it can roll off his tongue
like he means it.
You want to do what?
PR? A & R? What is that?
PR so you can play red-hot
A&R so you can audition for that raree show
The acronyms mean nothing when
you’re sleeping with them.
How hard is it for us women to be
taken seriously?
So we have these bitches trying to
run things in ways that fuck it up
for us all.
Public Relations is relating to the
audience not his dick.
Public relations doesn’t reek of the
desperation – you put off and everyone
smells it. Please take a second to
note that the words here are dope &
your roast beef pussy can’t compare to
the love I got for mine, yeah I wouldn’t
sell it for a dime-
bag, so you always have weed around in
case the boys come through for
“a joint to finish off the night.”
You all know this.
Leaving comments on MySpace like
you shared something secret for the
public to read,
it’s whack, you know it – we all know
it.
But enlighten us please, how
you do it with such ease.
The game, the time, how you ever gonna
find yourself when you’re busy looking for
others.
How can you know yourself, when
you’re too busy trying to know everyone
else.
But no one knows you – because no
one cares. Try it real next lifetime, it works
better that way.
Cos when I die at least I knew I was
fly.
