I'm back, motherfucker.

In some busted black Vans and 2nd Hand rugs.

What's changed?

You could tell by the third word of the post being ''motherfucker''
that nothing has changed.

Only further demoralised.

Been quiet for an aweful while now.

Trying to figure some shit out.

And take a blonde bitch with a nice figure out.

And I haven't had a chance to do either 'cause I've been caught up with my work.

Loads been questioning the kid 'bout the blog.

Well, this post is your answer.

I'm back.

I missed writing.

But most of all.

I missed you.

A man Apart.

A man.

A part.

That part he lost.

That part that was seperated from his being.

When she told him she could not do it anymore.

What hurts more than being left.

Is being left in the dark.

Alone.

With all the cigarettes and lighters in the world.

Without any knowledge of how.

How come we didn't love for as long as we live?

I mean, we had it going on.

Or maybe I thought we had it going on.

But I didn't really know whats going on.

And what was going on was an auction.

An auction of hearts.

Mine could not pay the price.

Going.

Going.

Gone.

I've been gone for so long that the memory of home is so faint.

That comes with being a dreamer, you know.

Departure is every dreamer's ultimate sacrifice.

Leaving everything and everyone you know and love.

To go some place where you know no love.

Just to fulfill your dreams.

But on my journey.

The further I travel from home.

From my heart.

The more her memory becomes vivid.

Each detail of the intricate design of the woman that loves me like no
other is far from vague in my mind.

Someone should've told me it would be this hard.

Someone should've told me that dreaming will only drift me further from her.

But no matter how far I'll ever be.

Man, no matter how far I'll ever travel.

Her telephonic voice saying ''Keep on going, my boy, you're nearly there''

That voice.

That sentence alone.

Takes me back home in my mothers hands and heart.

Thank you for letting me dream, mom.

My gold watch.

And my.

Gold chain.

And my.

Gold lock.

That helps me keep a small brain.

How materialism and superficiality took over the heart.

I won't lie.

I'm guilty of it too.

Out here.

Tweeting 'bout the new shit I copped.

But the difference between me and you.

Is that I see.

I see the superficiality for what it is.

I see what its doing my mind.

Caging in my emotions.

Keep 'em locked away in shoe boxes.

And toss my heart into the bin like those motherfucking Diesel tags
off the new scoop.

But you don't.

You don't see it.

Your superficial.

Is super official.

There's no way out now, sonny.

You're fucking trapped.

Stuck in a prison of price tags and bitches.

Captured by the music videos and fashion blogs.

Preventing you from thinking for yourself.

Holding your identity captive.

Barcoding you as 'cool'.

Then sending you out there.

To only mimic the idea that has been so beautifully prepared, served
and fed to you.

Making you think you've got it all together.

Allowing the idea of your identity being captured by the media and
replaced by the 'swag' to satisfy you.

To fool you.

You gotta get out of that trap.

You gotta make your way out, sonny.

We gotta make our way out.