There’s nothing new about being a gangsta: they bang, they shoot, they ride.
Too many of my brothers are expected casualties on the road we’re hesitant to call their lives.
There is nothing uncommon about being gangsta: so hard, too tough, they all bark like “men.” But not one of them is man enough to say,

“In a gang is the default of the world, I feared I could not fit in.”

There’s nothing new about being a gangsta: they want to rhyme, they want to club and they want to fuck. And purposely oblivious women get pregnant in hopes for a gangsta’s love.
There is nothing enthralling about being gangsta: they are losing soldiers in war they fight.
There’s nothing new about being a gangsta: they’re born, they run and more often sooner than others they die.

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