My life—inked in scars, chrome, and scripture,
crown heavy, still I stride through the vapor.
Momma prayed, I preyed on the doubters,
turned silence to anthems, fear to skyscrapers.
21, MoRRay, Cole—three ghosts in one body,
count blessings in commas, sins in the lobby.
If I die tonight, let the hook repeat:
every lost breath was a drum for the street.