DRIFTIN' BACK AIN'T WHO I USED TO BE
Can't really tell you when I started writin' this book.
Ain't no clean-cut birthday for the journey of these words.
Maybe it was one rainy-ass afternoon, raindrops tappin' like fingers on an old rusty tin roof- like the sky was knockin' on my spirit.
Or maybe it was from some dream I ain't finish, me floatin' in a pitch-black sea, nothin' 'round me but cries, people callin' out to each other with voices that cracked and broke, callin' with their whole chest like they was drownin'.
But truth be told...
I don't think I ever started this story.
I just been carryin' it.
Quietly.
Like somethin' smolderin' way deep down-
waitin' to bloom into words.
Like a seed been hidin' in the dirt, waitin' on that one heavy rain.
These words didn't come from some comfy-ass couch, me sippin' on fancy civet coffee, with the AC hummin' all smooth.
This book ain't got no scent of new paper.
It's stained.
With sweat, with blood, with tears- and that damn salty sea.
These words?
They like claw marks on a boat's edge.
Like a mama bitin' her lip so hard holdin' her dead baby, one arm grippin' the boat's side tight, 'cause she know if she let go, they both goin' under.
If I don't write this down,
I'm scared I'ma forget.
And I don't wanna forget.
Not the soft kinda memory.
But that heavy, festering kind- like a wound that don't close.
I wanna remember every dead gaze, every limp hand, every name that nobody call no more.
I wanna remember the souls still floatin' somewhere, caught between here and the beyond- lingerin' in dreams, in the temple bells ringin' 'round dusk, in that incense smoke that just won't fade, in the wind blowin' salty from the past.
I used to know Chu Hai- a little Catholic village, hugged up tight by winding dirt roads, where church bells rang every mornin', every night, like the earth itself was whisperin' soft to you.
1147488474
Ain't no clean-cut birthday for the journey of these words.
Maybe it was one rainy-ass afternoon, raindrops tappin' like fingers on an old rusty tin roof- like the sky was knockin' on my spirit.
Or maybe it was from some dream I ain't finish, me floatin' in a pitch-black sea, nothin' 'round me but cries, people callin' out to each other with voices that cracked and broke, callin' with their whole chest like they was drownin'.
But truth be told...
I don't think I ever started this story.
I just been carryin' it.
Quietly.
Like somethin' smolderin' way deep down-
waitin' to bloom into words.
Like a seed been hidin' in the dirt, waitin' on that one heavy rain.
These words didn't come from some comfy-ass couch, me sippin' on fancy civet coffee, with the AC hummin' all smooth.
This book ain't got no scent of new paper.
It's stained.
With sweat, with blood, with tears- and that damn salty sea.
These words?
They like claw marks on a boat's edge.
Like a mama bitin' her lip so hard holdin' her dead baby, one arm grippin' the boat's side tight, 'cause she know if she let go, they both goin' under.
If I don't write this down,
I'm scared I'ma forget.
And I don't wanna forget.
Not the soft kinda memory.
But that heavy, festering kind- like a wound that don't close.
I wanna remember every dead gaze, every limp hand, every name that nobody call no more.
I wanna remember the souls still floatin' somewhere, caught between here and the beyond- lingerin' in dreams, in the temple bells ringin' 'round dusk, in that incense smoke that just won't fade, in the wind blowin' salty from the past.
I used to know Chu Hai- a little Catholic village, hugged up tight by winding dirt roads, where church bells rang every mornin', every night, like the earth itself was whisperin' soft to you.
DRIFTIN' BACK AIN'T WHO I USED TO BE
Can't really tell you when I started writin' this book.
Ain't no clean-cut birthday for the journey of these words.
Maybe it was one rainy-ass afternoon, raindrops tappin' like fingers on an old rusty tin roof- like the sky was knockin' on my spirit.
Or maybe it was from some dream I ain't finish, me floatin' in a pitch-black sea, nothin' 'round me but cries, people callin' out to each other with voices that cracked and broke, callin' with their whole chest like they was drownin'.
But truth be told...
I don't think I ever started this story.
I just been carryin' it.
Quietly.
Like somethin' smolderin' way deep down-
waitin' to bloom into words.
Like a seed been hidin' in the dirt, waitin' on that one heavy rain.
These words didn't come from some comfy-ass couch, me sippin' on fancy civet coffee, with the AC hummin' all smooth.
This book ain't got no scent of new paper.
It's stained.
With sweat, with blood, with tears- and that damn salty sea.
These words?
They like claw marks on a boat's edge.
Like a mama bitin' her lip so hard holdin' her dead baby, one arm grippin' the boat's side tight, 'cause she know if she let go, they both goin' under.
If I don't write this down,
I'm scared I'ma forget.
And I don't wanna forget.
Not the soft kinda memory.
But that heavy, festering kind- like a wound that don't close.
I wanna remember every dead gaze, every limp hand, every name that nobody call no more.
I wanna remember the souls still floatin' somewhere, caught between here and the beyond- lingerin' in dreams, in the temple bells ringin' 'round dusk, in that incense smoke that just won't fade, in the wind blowin' salty from the past.
I used to know Chu Hai- a little Catholic village, hugged up tight by winding dirt roads, where church bells rang every mornin', every night, like the earth itself was whisperin' soft to you.
Ain't no clean-cut birthday for the journey of these words.
Maybe it was one rainy-ass afternoon, raindrops tappin' like fingers on an old rusty tin roof- like the sky was knockin' on my spirit.
Or maybe it was from some dream I ain't finish, me floatin' in a pitch-black sea, nothin' 'round me but cries, people callin' out to each other with voices that cracked and broke, callin' with their whole chest like they was drownin'.
But truth be told...
I don't think I ever started this story.
I just been carryin' it.
Quietly.
Like somethin' smolderin' way deep down-
waitin' to bloom into words.
Like a seed been hidin' in the dirt, waitin' on that one heavy rain.
These words didn't come from some comfy-ass couch, me sippin' on fancy civet coffee, with the AC hummin' all smooth.
This book ain't got no scent of new paper.
It's stained.
With sweat, with blood, with tears- and that damn salty sea.
These words?
They like claw marks on a boat's edge.
Like a mama bitin' her lip so hard holdin' her dead baby, one arm grippin' the boat's side tight, 'cause she know if she let go, they both goin' under.
If I don't write this down,
I'm scared I'ma forget.
And I don't wanna forget.
Not the soft kinda memory.
But that heavy, festering kind- like a wound that don't close.
I wanna remember every dead gaze, every limp hand, every name that nobody call no more.
I wanna remember the souls still floatin' somewhere, caught between here and the beyond- lingerin' in dreams, in the temple bells ringin' 'round dusk, in that incense smoke that just won't fade, in the wind blowin' salty from the past.
I used to know Chu Hai- a little Catholic village, hugged up tight by winding dirt roads, where church bells rang every mornin', every night, like the earth itself was whisperin' soft to you.
17.02
In Stock
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DRIFTIN' BACK AIN'T WHO I USED TO BE
194
DRIFTIN' BACK AIN'T WHO I USED TO BE
194Paperback(Novel)
$17.02
17.02
In Stock
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9798317684464 |
---|---|
Publisher: | Barnes & Noble Press |
Publication date: | 05/27/2025 |
Edition description: | Novel |
Pages: | 194 |
Product dimensions: | 5.83(w) x 8.27(h) x 0.45(d) |
About the Author
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