What's the 411?
Spitting game at me,
Bottom lip poked out,
Teeth grinding into it as if to risk temptation.
Temptation a deadly force we both now all too well.
Trying to mack,
As if I'd ever try to fuck in the back of your 96' Impala.
A player,
Yet still a loser.
Thinking you could be the nigga,
to finally get to pull the trigger.
But never with me,
I could never go down that quick.
It takes more than a couple of smiles and compliments to drop panties.
Curves wide,
Nothing baggy can can hide.
But for you to fix your mouth to talk all that shit.
I have to tell you,
That's not it.
What's the 411, hon?
Never gonna,
So hold your tongue,
Bite your cheek.
You might as well quit it.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
Woman.
PoesiaA book of poems and feelings. A book from a girl, a rose from the concrete. A Woman growing.
