Rap Game Bo Jackson

1:17am It's cold. The air cuts through cracks in the car. I haven't written for awhile.

Fucking in a cars on a cold winter night Heated by our bodies clasped across the windows A sentimental breakdown of what I've never known Filling my head with discrepancies of yearning desires that permeate eternally through a void of anxiety and depression that fight like they're chained in a cage. Keep the dogs down while I claw myself upward, rooting in faulting ice that could shatter at any moment. I'll scan the crowd for your face, and do what I can not to sink again

I’m addicted to acting like I have my shit together

There’s something about the experience of hanging out in a humid basement listening to shitty music by your not so shitty friends, while drinking canned beer that tastes like it was stacked in clearance for a little too long, and being enveloped by colored lighting and conversation that cost $38 from the novelty store at the mall, that molded a part of who I am, and who we are. These situations birth creations of character and love that extend to all who grew up in it. In the dirty, dingy basements that nurtured my need for something other than the high pressure life of fake comradery and old money. I grew underground, and I love everyone who grew with me.