Relieve some of the stress

In the projects, the only way to relieve some of the stress is to park the car and just start rhyming. In such a dangerous place, it was the only thing we had to free our mind and run away from the dangers. Safety was a word that did not exist in the project dictionary. In the streets, it was like a Maad City, filled with drugs, Bloods, and Crips. At home, we had to only dream of money trees to give us some shade. All around me, it felt like a swimming pool filled to the brim with liqueur. Especially at home. I grew with people livin’ their life in bottles. My own granddaddy had the golden flask filled up and ready to go every day. He wouldn’t spend a cent on rent, but he would spend hundreds of dollars on a shiny, sleek, and deadly gold flask. To get around at home, I would have to do backstrokes through the gallons of liquor stored in my mama’s pad.
The real issue is the alcoholism spread to me. I felt that the only way to fit in and be accepted was to pop a bottle. That thought re-occurred in my head millions of times non-stop, until one day I decided to do something about it. I shut off the lights in the room, loud tunes lookin’ to make a vow soon that I’ma get fucked up fillin up my cup with whatever felt right. As any honest boy, I took a sip, then another sip, and then somebody said to me,
“Okay, now open your mind up and listen me, Kendrick I am your conscience, if you do not hear me. Then you will be history, Kendrick I know that you're nauseous right now and I’m hopin to lead you to victory Kendrick,”
If I take another one down I'ma drown in some poison, abusin' my limit, but screw it. Everything is swirling. Blends of color, things, memories, ideas. I can't think straight.
I don’t know where I am, but I love it. Everything fades. Life seems so easy, no pain no shame. Only happy thoughts.
My vision starts going black. My eyelids get heavy. I’m starting to lose balance. I start to fall. The feelings around me fade as I hit the ground.
I wake up in the hospital. My mama looking at me with worry, my granddaddy sitting with his golden flask.
“He will be alright ma’am,” the doctor reassuringly tells my mama. He takes a look at my grandad.
“I would put that down if I were you because-“
“Oh shut yo damn mouth boy, I know my limit,” he responds while taking another sip, “I ain’t like this foo over here.”
“Why Kendrick, why. You know we don’t have the money for this. Why did you do this to me.” Mama says, “We don't live under money trees, and you know it.”
Yes mama, I know. I know that you are lyin. You say this every time as if it's some sort of vindication for you. I know we are sitting upon stacks and stacks of drug money but you want to hide it. You want to hide it from me like it’s some sort of disease, but I know all about it ma. The amount, from who, where, when. Absolutely everything. Yet you still act like you're some sort of gods apprentice, that you only do the right things and we should treat you as though you have descended upon us from God. I know you are in the business cause I’m in the business ma.
They tell you it's a maad city. You really don’t understand that phrase until you develop the habits you gain from the project life. The situations that you put yourself into bring out your true intentions and colors. What you do and how you do it influences everyone around you. The first time I sold was much the same.
The first day I sold was a complete accident. I was strolling through an alleyway: looking for anything selL. Cloth, cans, water bottles, anything. At the time, I was not exposed to the thousands of dollars of cash hidden from me, so that meant any money found went straight to my mom. Looking in and around a garbage can led me to find a small zip-lock bag filled with what looked like white powder. I opened the bag and smelled it. I was hit with a flowery smell: smelled like sweet candy. My immediate thought was that it was baby powder. The powder had the same powdery look, feel, and smell too.
“Hey, kid! How much?” yelled the stranger from behind me. The stranger was a man. He was African American, about six foot two, and he had a beard that looked as though it has never seen a razor in its life.
“What do you mean?” I replied with much confusion
“I mean the bag your holding in your hands boy! I want it!”
“Uhh…how much?”
“That looks like some finely powdered cocaine there my friend. Colombia’s finest. I won't ask how you got it but how does $65 sound to ya?”
“$70 and you got a deal,” I said ending the bargain.
What does he mean by Colombia’s finest I thought to myself. Not only that but did I get ripped or did I just make a lot of money? These are all the thoughts that filled me when I first dove in, but most importantly I could not let my mama find out. Little did I know, she was already deep in the drug business. Over the course of a few weeks, I kept re-visiting the plug, the garbage can. It was filled to the brim with coke, weed, Xans, and bottles of lean. Don’t know who threw it out, or even why but one mans trash is another man's treasure. The garbage can was a pot, and I started to grow my money tree.
The thought of being shaded from all my problems enticed me. The dream around Compton was to be shaded by money trees: being shaded from all the problems of a thug. I had dreams of livin’ life like rappers do. Jay-Z and Kanye, those guys made it out the project life and are livin’ the dream. That was my goal. Although it seems the wealthy have their own problems, friends switching lanes, backstabbing them, using em for the money. I know my real ones though.
This went on for a few weeks until the gang war broke out. This gang war was like no other. The Bloods and crips of Compton went at it, and I was caught in the middle. Being the biggest drug plug in the area, I was taken in cars to all the drive by’s.