The writer

When words connect to the vocals we call it spoken word, daily thoughts vase the flowers watered by eyes sighted in viewed visuals of vendetta that money brings,

Money for survival, can I have bread for the hunger to stop screaming the growls crawling the outer surrounding of my skin self for I live on the street no clothes for warmness, let’s not even focus on my hygiene

The stanch of dirtiness clouded the waters of showers, pouring down your throat, bought in the shop you exiting, as I stand there besides you asking for money to buy bread

The writer stood there on the other side of the street observing this action of your refusal 

I, or he the man on the street is not your problem

So why write this piece if you not going to read it with the right shoulder of mind

The writer wrote

Lebron Spirits