When my wife and I first started dating, she joked that every boy she ever dated who grew up in New York City eventually revealed that they secretly wanted to be a rapper. It turned out she was correct. Because I, too, had a book of rhymes lying around.
I can’t rap for shit. I would always stay quiet and drift to the back when freestyles broke out in the cafeteria or in the yard during my school days in the Bronx. But some of my first attempts at creative writing were these rhymes, or more specifically, poetry in the style of hip-hop bars.
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