I remember coming of age in a pivotal time, when young black boys was trying to make a penny off their rhymes. Young poets was tryna get paid, Beyonce had girls sipping lemonade. Days passed, days came, God got it pouring purple rain. What a time it was in my city, but what I remember most was this goddess who was sitting pretty. I recall her sitting under the sun, her curly hair pulled up in a bun. Her eyes shined like a precious metal, her shoulders covered in pink petals, her skin looked like chocolate, and her dress was tan. I'm not a religious man but she had me breathless thinking "goddamn!" I approached with cautious motion cause I couldn't leave the slightest notion that I was nervous to speak, a grown man with his knees feeling weak. I spoke and said "Excuse me miss can I get your name, I knew that when I saw you I couldn't think the same. I don't expect you to feel the same way, but you just so perfect so what can I say? I was just walking through the city and I saw you sitting pretty." She kept reading her book and chewing her gum and I'm sitting here thinking "Damn I look dumb." But she pulled down her sunglasses and my heart dropped with great weight and she said "Here's my number; pick me up at 8."
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