grit for grips

we lived it.
that's the thing.

we moved from our house to our house,
and only one is our's now.
we rode in backseats and backstreets,
and they all had magic carpets.
we stood in worship and war-zone,
and ripened through both,
and now it's different.

he used to be her best friend,
and now he treats her criminal.
the big boys were never friends at all,
the bond was always minimal.
the other boys, yeah, it was jokes.
the girls, they did the daily.
a queen and an apprentice,
the other was kinda shaky...

but she writes now.
she always did.
but she's good now.
she always was.

she stole her brother's cds and someone's walkman,
she doesn't remember who's, but she remembers it worked man.
alicia keys and b2k, 20 minutes before bismillah and alif, bay, pay.
british bulldog princess,
grazed knee under chiffon dress.
superstar in the playground, 
but don't ask her to sing for choir.
she liked the chaos, boys' football, and walking on wires.
she was confident.
artist, performer, detective.
a doctor, and then a dentist.
there was no limit to anything;
she'd beat you in everything.
almost.

do you see it?
do you see it now?
log-wood fires screaming,
"this is my park!"
holographic reeboks, 
you don't know who we are.
that's my blood on the tarmac,
that's my spit on the floor,
​"fuck you, and your space raiders!"
we're not friends anymore.
i heard she's got a baby now,
and so has she.
i don't know where the rest are,
don't ask me.

she's got a lot to say,
she always has.
loud-mouthed, small-hipped, skinny bitch with a decent kick.
fast forward from 2000s,
these are the naughties,
no teas,
no tea,
but they think they know me.
watch my hands
dance interpret 
and my lips do the walking.
you speak about me.
about me, never to me,
even when we're talking.

pick your battles,
win your scabs.
this isn't school, 
this isn't pop,
this is art and design.

we're all failures,
​we are one of a kind.