I Used To Love H.E.R.
CommonCommon | I Used To Love H.E.R.
I met this girl, when I was ten years old
And what I loved most she had so much soul
She was old school, when I was just a shorty
Never knew throughout my life she would be there for me
ont he regular, not a church girl she was secular
Not about the money, no studs was mic checkin her
But I respected her, she hit me in the heart
A few New York niggaz, had did her in the park
But she was there for me, and I was there for her
Pull out a chair for her, turn on the air for her
and just cool out, cool out and listen to her
Sittin on a bone, wishin that I could do her
Eventually if it was meant to be, then it would be
because we related, physically and mentally
And she was fun then, I’d be geeked when she’d come around
Slim was fresh yo, when she was underground
Original, pure untampered and down sister
Boy I tell ya, I miss her
[Verse Two:]
Now periodically I would see
ol girl at the clubs, and at the house parties
She didn’t have a body but she started gettin’ thick quick
Did a couple of videos and became Afrocentric
Out goes the weave, in goes the braids beads medallions
She was on that tip about, stoppin’ the violence
About my people she was teachin’ me
By not preachin’ to me but speakin’ to me
in a method that was leisurely, so easily I approached
She dug my rap, that’s how we got close
But then she broke to the West coast, and that was cool
Cause around the same time, I went away to school
And I’m a man of expandin’, so why should I stand in her way
She probably get her money in L.A.
And she did stud, she got big pub but what was foul
She said that the pro-black, was goin’ out of style
She said, afrocentricity, was of the past
So she got into R&B hip-house bass and jazz
Now black music is black music and it’s all good
I wasn’t salty, she was with the boys in the hood
Cause that was good for her, she was becomin’ well rounded
I thought it was dope how she was on that freestyle shit
Just havin’ fun, not worried about anyone
And you could tell, by how her titties hung
[Verse Three:]
I might’ve failed to mention that the shit was creative
But once the man got you well he altered the native
Told her if she got an energetic gimmick
That she could make money, and she did it like a dummy
Now I see her in commercials, she’s universal
She used to only swing it with the inner-city circle
Now she be in the burbs lickin’ rock and dressin hip
And on some dumb shit, when she comes to the city
Talkin about poppin glocks servin’ rocks and hittin’ switches
Now she’s a gangsta rollin with gangsta bitches
Always smokin blunts and gettin drunk
Tellin me sad stories, now she only fucks with the funk
Stressin’ how hardcore and real she is
She was really the realest, before she got into showbiz
I did her, not just to say that I did it
But I’m committed, but so many niggaz hit it
That she’s just not the same lettin’ all these groupies do her
I see niggaz slammin her, and takin her to the sewer
But I’ma take her back hopin’ that the shit stop
Cause who I’m talkin’ bout y’all is hip-hop
Resurrection
Red and silver and gold flashed by Jim’s eyes, all the colors blurring together. Every so often a pop of green would come into play, but rarely did it catch his attention. No, he was much more interested in watching the flame in front of him flicker; attending this holiday ball had been a bad idea. He was bored to tears; bored, and he couldn’t stop imagining Alexandra in every dress that walked by. God, she had been beautiful. He had no idea where she’d gotten it from. But she had been absolutely stunning.
And then, after he let her slip his mind, faces would start to blur too. Soon everyone looked the same and he couldn’t differentiate between them, not even when they smiled at him and asked him to dance. He’d ignore them and sometimes they would repeat it, fearing he hadn’t heard. Sometimes they’d just leave.
Eventually he got up to leave, sick of the festivities and the music. It was giving him a migraine; although he’d had one constantly for - as long as he could remember. He’d go to the doctor but maybe he deserved to hurt. The cuts on his wrists agreed.
On his way out he brushed against a woman in red; it didn’t register who it was until he was several meters away from her. Svetlana. Svetlana Moran, the little whore who had killed his daughter. Oh, this was rich. He’d forgotten about her, the little ant - but now, she had walked right into his arms. Almost literally. He couldn’t pass up this oppurtunity.
Feral grin on his face, he stalked her like a cat with its prey, staying just out of her line of sight. When she pardoned herself to use the bathroom, he stalked after her, cornering her in the empty women’s room. “Hi, pet,” Jim stepped out of the shadows as she was reapplying her lipstick. “How’ve you been, sweetheart? Wonderful, I hope. Your dress is fitting - red, does it represent the blood on your hands?”