My Own Stash

Every woman should have her own stash
of that sticky icky magical green.
Roll it up, twist it up, let the smoke fill you up until you get lifted up.
Because you know its hard being a woman
in a world of constant
‘hey baby can I walk with you for a minute?’
‘whats your name? Can I get your number?’
No.
Every woman should have her own baggy
of that chronic, herb, in the words of Rick James
‘Mary Jannneeee’
Pack it up, burn it up, let the smoke fill you up until you get lifted up.
Because you know its hard being a woman in a world
of clocking in
clocking out
Damn that’s all I made this month?
Every woman should have her own supply
of those purple trees
burn it up let the smoke fill you up until you get lifted up.
Because you know its hard being a woman in a world
where everyday is a battlefield with scars that run deep.
Scars that you swallow up and push deep inside you till you
want to scream.
Because its hard being a woman in these streets, running from the police
pushed to the point when all you want is to go home
and be like pass the piece.

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