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Knock Knock

Knock Knock

The knock on the poor
is they can't afford
the shit that we're tryna to sell 'em.

But you've never been much
for metaphors,
while I'm always tryna to tell 'em.

There's a knock on the door.
What it's for,
there's never really any tellin'
until you open the door -
A metaphor,
but not like the one's I'm yellin'.


I wish this mirror would stop
reminding me
of the me that I surely be.

Left speechless by the certainty,
but perhaps that's the mute in me.

Passed by a bum
on the streets again,
but perhaps that's the brute in me.

Objectified again
by a heart of sin,
while subjected to my scrutiny.


City drums
of city bums
have made an alley of this avenue.

It's a pity rum
can't become
what nourishes the life of you.

There're witty bums,
comedic ones,
but I wish they were laughing too.

I see their signs
and signs of mine -
signs that would see us through.

But once again, that's a metaphor,
or maybe it's a simile.

Either way, they're still poor
when no one really has to be.