Grey skies. Blue lights. Red signs. Speeding through em cause I’m not stopping. This life of mine never slows down for the yellow lights.
We recite Outkast, that’s the only language we knew at one point in time. Roses never laid in my hands & we never took that walk they Idlewild.
I never see pinks & blues in my forecast. He called me his spottieottiedopaliscious angel & he was my ATLien, tho he wasn’t from that place.
We listened to southernplayalisticcadillacmusik, relaxing. As he sang into my Speakerboxx & I caressed The Love Below that he gave to me. In the form of the Mighty O.
Riding Elevators as he read me The Art of Storytelling. Mentioning some new joint called B.O.B…yea I like him too. He was the Whole World 2 me.
He was So Fresh, So Clean & he called me the Prototype of Rosa Parks on The Train cause Ms. Jackson was just a mean bitch from Stankonia.
We planned a huge Players Ball wedding with no Hollywood Divorce because we’d play Ghetto Musick cause he liked the way I Moved. Had the chef Skew it on the Bar-B.
There was no other Jazzy Belle to him but me. And vows called International Players Anthem. He said “I choose you.” And we lived in this blissful state of Aquemini. Just he and I.
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