I been so down it look like up. So down, and yet, I couldn’t figure what it was. Hit the loud once, world opened up, and still learned none.
“Cookie Monster was a prisoner of war” is the kind of poem I like, the kind only God can write, the kind that spells out my life in the simplest terms that suffice. Before I pass the mic I’d like to share some advice: All you protect yrself from feeling will fuck with yr sense of being and become all you can see. A lor nigga was C-O-P-I-N-G by tryna stay out of sight w a thumb between my teeth. Always under my arm was my best friend, Cookie. But my Grandma, I think, feared that it would turn me sweet.
I been so down it look like up. So down, and yet, I couldn’t figure what it was. Chris woke up dead then I started to really bug. So depressed I was defunct. Asked to see someone, shit a dub. Felt like my folks aint give no fuck. None of us thought about my thumb.
You know whats funny to me, is this lil idea abt Cookie Monster getting tortured tatted on me. Think of Rambo in his flashbacks when he tied to a tree. Emotional assimilation feels similarly. We were apart most my life, turns out he got took from me. My Grandma gave him back once I secured my bachelors degree with nothing more than “Well you stopped sucking yr thumb, didnt ya?”
But yea, I guess I turned out alright in the end, didn’t I?
(I detest all my discussions of I)
I been so down it look like up. So down, and yet, I couldnt figure what it was.
I did many drugs but never ever rode the bus.
No instead a nigga de-prioritizes his needs, disarmed by paranoid delusions that bring him to his knees. Growing out of character is how he spends the time in between, and therefore trapped inside a cycle of constant apology.
