She held her tongue at the sound of a pin drop.
Voices sit still till bullets and pins pop,
1 shot,
2 shots,
Three times the charm,
The third didn't hesitate to silence a tear drop...

Time stops.
Transformation has begun on the southside,
Loud cries.
Skin tears.
Sin bears her soul...
Tightly,
Mightily,
In every bronx wound wielding malicious memories...
With every bump,
Buh-bump,
One sparks in the hazy smoke she totes with wishes of forgetting...
Forgetting a girl she left behind each line crossed,
In her wedding with destruction...

Junctions of change defamate her character.
Jane Hoe became her toe tag.
Hunts point said she couldn't blow past,
Every dick without a taste and a prolapse.

But her mind and heart said otherwise...
Inside,
Her eyes fluttered for love but,
A bullet with a name pierced that shell...
Egg shell effect,
Every condom wrap unwrapped on the tip of every head,
That isn't thinking the same way she isn't,
Has her mouth flapping lips in,
Sync with synonymous descriptions of her innocence,
Being chained trying to break free of all stigmata...

Her walls painted with,
Slut,
Whore,
Prostitute,
For searching through this concrete jungle,
In hopes to find love in a real man that won't stumble through his words...
But she passes on her trust and each time,
They fumble...

So she's huddled,
By the grips of Story Ave. in Projects,
To keep working on herself before she's a cornered prospect,
Of good pussy and easy bookings...
Only that she's already been infected...