(Aight) (yeah)

(C’mon)

Brick glow on the block,

Kinda tragic before it dropped.

Lipstick smear on the cup,

Niike keeps spinnin’—lies stack up.

City coughs its broken tune,

Storefronts hum, they lie too soon.

We chase them habits we swore we’d quit,

On cracked stone where the weeds still sit.

And I confess, under the drone,

This messy life still feel like home.

Bus stop—shelter worn,

Tired eyes—carry storm.

Cold fries—left in the tray,

Another tale—driftin’ away…

(“Yo, last call, man!”) / (“You good, shorty?”)

(All) (right)

Project walls peeling, I seen it before,

Receipts in her pocket, ink turned gold.

A buck short at the corner-store door,

Don’t even ask—I heard it before.

Every step lift steam off the street,

Block dogs bark—they know that beat.

Ain’t preachin’, just killin’ time past midnight,

Folded quiet under hood light.

Step on the block, stone under my kicks,

Corner store hustle, cash flip, quick tricks,

Storm rollin’ in, streets talk, no fix.

Stuck in the bus jam, hands caught in the door mix.