Dead Rappers Society

I got lost in the posthumous releases of dead rappers, post-emo, post another clip on SoundCloud, post your pain in proper cadence.

You can’t save the boy buried in bars just like you can’t save time, trap it in a vinyl pressing, spin until the format warps.

Scratch.

Nail on a chalkboard. Nail you to this cross section of income inequality versus the right amount of Fentanyl in a system.

Take another shot at the Xanax on the counter.

I’m obsessed with my society’s obsession with suicide.

Joke about the noose, joke about the grind, joke’s on you if you think the youth are only killing.

Work hard, work hard, hard work until the grind stops in a pile of orange bottles.

White caps. No labels.

Take a bit of Tramadol. Take another look in the mirror to see strong lines formed around your eyes, you understand the corrosion on your skin. Cascading effects of a daily sub-urban commute.

Strong in the head, strong diamonds for forever homes forever in debt to the pilfer barons, the pump pump pump of a heart in Nashville heat.

I pump the brakes, turn around, I can’t help you if I can’t help myself.

I can’t wonder why my people worry when they invented the best way to ingest a coca leaf.

Leave the motherland for brighter shores, where they detain, distress, detract every part of you until only dead voices remain.

Like what you read? Give Luiggi Carlin a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.