I’m not like other guys. As a matter of fact I don’t fool with too many niggahs; me and Pa$tor$ have nothing in common because they couldn’t control their judgemental attitudes nor stop staring at my lips when I read scripture

Side note. If Bishop Alfred Owens of Greater Mount Calvary Holy Church in Northeast D.C. called me a faggot during his sermon I wouldn’t have pulled a Jon Mack and Michael Garrett and quietly walked out after a year.

I’ma Goulds, Niggah. I woulda snatched all the DL fags out of the closet in front of the Pa$tor then snatched Alfred’s phony ass off the damn stage if it was me.

What makes him think he’s a saint? Bitch please. Yea I said it. What the hell he's gonna do? Whip my ass? I’ll make you choke on that robe, Niggah. You wouldn’t make it to church next Sunday.

My parents are on some other shit; my little brothers are aggravating as hell; and I’m still try’na find my place in the world.

The thugs and I get along well. But some of them were fakers and flaugers. Flaugers (pronounced flawjers) was the short, Ebonics term for camouflage, which meant to blend in with any environment with the purpose to deceive, throwing shade.

'Cause they all think they’re thugs. And a
few of the pissy breath thugs are trying to pull the skull cap over their arched eyebrows.

Hey, Girl.

You ain’t no thug. Thug Missus. Chile.

That’s just the nature of my temperature's rising life. I look at things subjectively.

I WAS. CreATEd, I would like to think and I know the letters were up and down (Caps lock on! CAPS LOCK off!) yea I know that.

That was done purposely.

I WAS. CreATEd, I knew this as fact right now at this particular point in my life. Because, now I AM PHAROAH, a reflection of God, sword stored in my mouth, lines the esophagus comprising my throat...

My tongue was a mighty, mighty sword. And I’ll cuss a bitch and a fuck ass niggah out, too. I don’t bite my tongue about who I am, but I do know there was a time and place to speak aggressively. I’m Larry Curtis gahdamn Wilson Jr. PERIOD. And if you didn’t love me then love to learn your damn self.

Now my tongue stretches into my hands, moving around some nerves like pistons and I have a holl lotta say (ghetto for a whole lot to say!).

I have a lot to say, yes, but I’d rather type, like this; just reads better than the sounds I make when I talk about it in interviews, when I have to relive those abusive moments of my young life.

I deal with Ying and Yang daily. Was he straight or bi? Was he gay or straight?
Well you should know by now.

I WAS. CreATEd by God and had to survive the bonfires amongst the amazons and the concrete jungle of incarceration before I fully became a man.

Being incarcerated in a penal institution was a part of my Manhood Training. Survival of the Fittest. I always
looked good in and out of a suit. So that was enduringly fitting to me.

God had to’ve come from the Big Bang theory, because my Daddy fucked the shit outta Mama and I came from his Big Bang theory then Mama’s Big Bang theory thereafter left the Delivery Room a bloody mess.

Then she married him, becoming his wife and I guess he felt trapped. So even though I had a biological Daddy, I was born a bastard child.

Out of wedlock.