He’s the boy that never goes home. Who thinks selling dope and having high hopes make him grown. Late nights on street corners protecting urban borders, claiming rocks for blood, selling rocks for what? He nodded at me and I smiled back, never once ignoring the blood stains on his shoes – he was a gangster. And I never understood how such a bright boy could be such a coward, because that’s what they all are. Cowards who hide behind colors, blue and red type brothers who leave their sisters and mothers, how could he? I bet you wonder if heaven's got a ghetto. But you will never know, because attempting to play God and pimpin' Mother Nature will never get you high enough to get there. So he will descend his angels to tell you it's Tupac for one more gangster & now, you're off to hell's home, homie, where you won’t have back pockets for your blood colored bandanas to hang onto like umbilical cords connecting you with the wind. You will just be dead skin. Lost like the next of kin of all your other blood-brothers who sin – and all you’re fighting for means nothing anymore. Because in hell you will no longer have your boys willing to die for you, just demons waiting to dance with you, holding out red roses that used to be white before they used them to clean up the mess you made when you were still alive. What are you thinking? You coward.. running from your own light, shaking hands with the darkness, like you were never taught to recognize the sun.