Had dreams of a dread-man when I was only ten
At sixteen, all my dreams were of 'gangsters'
how cool they were to me just by their style
their swagger, their steps, their carress;
sent a teenage girl holding on to last breath.
Can't seem to resist their what-it-do-shawty speech
nor their get-that-money niche
nevermind the times, my mind keep saying
all things feeling this good can come to an end.
And perhaps it has. Then perhaps it was,
though it never began, just like a...teenage buzz
I felt it. Like southern winds filled with stones
and it's only I they blow with
So I brushed lust off, turned my face to that sweet southern breeze.
Southern fried. Southern high. Southern love I don't want you to die.
Not tonight. Not this time. Not this way, my heart will bleed too long.
It's too cold for the distance, wasted it freezes on a ground re-peatedly built, for instance
careless whispers.
Pea
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