'till kingdom come [ original ]
h o m e c o m i n g
414w | narrative-poem tribute to kanye’s unmistakable genius
she said it felt like they walked and drove on me
knew i was gang affiliated got on tv and told on me
i guess it's why last winter she got so cold on me
she said, yeah keep making that, keep making that platinum and gold for me
HOMECOMING ft. CHRIS MARTIN/KANYE WEST
Driving home from school one afternoon, he decides, Mama, I'ma make it.
Evening dinner conversations no one else is present for; at night in his bed, resonating in his head, in his head. I'ma touch the sky, touch the sky.
Don't get your hopes up, they impress, so he fakes nods and grins, grins and nods, until the drive is near-extinguished and
nobody questions it.
You mean the world to me, he lies. Fifteen years old when you meet, sprouting limbs too long for use, neither one of you able to catch up. There's tainted silver in his eyes, and gold gleaming in your pocket. Despite the skeptics, you let him stay (what else, then?).
Overfilled backpack of necessities perched just beside the door frame: all you don't (won't) see. Later, the shades are drawn, and the window sill is slicked with rain (why were you so blind?).
"Next stop: Los Angeles," he calls to tell you. Four in the morning and his voice is thick with sleep. The negligible town stays small and sound, whether you're sobbing or screaming at the top of your lungs.
See?
Nothing.
Changes.
Still.
(But what more did you expect? Touché.)
So you stay with the town (just as he left it), with all the years that pass you by.
It's a bleak, static haze, generating radio waves;
city brights beneath satellites,
all of which you've tried to fight.
Meanwhile,
he's soaring,
soaring.
Gold in your pocket, but platinum in his teeth. Rhymes of fame, fortune, success - but what of love? you wonder.
"I
think
this
is a
touchdown,"
he calls to tell you.
Good, but when will you come home? A worthless desire - stop dreaming, start living, they say. Easier said than done - no angels on earth, you retort, for they carry you up to touch the sky.
And in the end, he's gone, gone - you're left with shiny new records mired somewhere between the strings of your palpitating heart.
It starts with a glimmer from a blind and broken dream;
it ends with a stretch of infinite sky, painted blue and everything beyond. (Distorted, deceivingly corrupted with lies.)
But he doesn't see any of it, since he leaps anyway.
Up, up, up. Higher and higher until all that's visible are
the rubber soles
of his DC shoes.
Come home, you urge again,
every now and then.
And in doing so,
you find that
in fact,
is
precisely
where
he’s
been
all
along.
414w | narrative-poem tribute to kanye’s unmistakable genius
she said it felt like they walked and drove on me
knew i was gang affiliated got on tv and told on me
i guess it's why last winter she got so cold on me
she said, yeah keep making that, keep making that platinum and gold for me
HOMECOMING ft. CHRIS MARTIN/KANYE WEST
Driving home from school one afternoon, he decides, Mama, I'ma make it.
Evening dinner conversations no one else is present for; at night in his bed, resonating in his head, in his head. I'ma touch the sky, touch the sky.
Don't get your hopes up, they impress, so he fakes nods and grins, grins and nods, until the drive is near-extinguished and
nobody questions it.
You mean the world to me, he lies. Fifteen years old when you meet, sprouting limbs too long for use, neither one of you able to catch up. There's tainted silver in his eyes, and gold gleaming in your pocket. Despite the skeptics, you let him stay (what else, then?).
Overfilled backpack of necessities perched just beside the door frame: all you don't (won't) see. Later, the shades are drawn, and the window sill is slicked with rain (why were you so blind?).
"Next stop: Los Angeles," he calls to tell you. Four in the morning and his voice is thick with sleep. The negligible town stays small and sound, whether you're sobbing or screaming at the top of your lungs.
See?
Nothing.
Changes.
Still.
(But what more did you expect? Touché.)
So you stay with the town (just as he left it), with all the years that pass you by.
It's a bleak, static haze, generating radio waves;
city brights beneath satellites,
all of which you've tried to fight.
Meanwhile,
he's soaring,
soaring.
Gold in your pocket, but platinum in his teeth. Rhymes of fame, fortune, success - but what of love? you wonder.
"I
think
this
is a
touchdown,"
he calls to tell you.
Good, but when will you come home? A worthless desire - stop dreaming, start living, they say. Easier said than done - no angels on earth, you retort, for they carry you up to touch the sky.
And in the end, he's gone, gone - you're left with shiny new records mired somewhere between the strings of your palpitating heart.
It starts with a glimmer from a blind and broken dream;
it ends with a stretch of infinite sky, painted blue and everything beyond. (Distorted, deceivingly corrupted with lies.)
But he doesn't see any of it, since he leaps anyway.
Up, up, up. Higher and higher until all that's visible are
the rubber soles
of his DC shoes.
Come home, you urge again,
every now and then.
And in doing so,
you find that
in fact,
is
precisely
where
he’s
been
all
along.