"You don't work, you don't eat,
you don't grind, you don't shine."
What those words left out and what separates
the convicted and the play date
is the fact that only so much shine
can come with only so much grind
before the only rest your bones will get
before they're condemned to stars
or no oneness
are the moments thirty hours in, chin on fist
with a notepad on your lap and
the beginning strains of an unfinished
song banging in your head and
half asleep on a day job's john,
doing diligence to the grind
so that maybe you'll find
the right one to shine on and become
the sum of things encased inside
your riot parts crushed against
tape and shield and tear gas,
but maybe
in this life all you'll make on your grind
is chaff and waste and nap times
in public places amidst
if only they knew faces.
Maybe what he meant to say:
"You don't work, you don't eat well,
you don't grind, you seal your own hell."
