βoγ. π¦πΎππ π±ππ
ββββββββββ
π ππ±π²π¬πͺπ°πΈ, π'ππ΅πΈπ¬π΄
MADE: @π ππ£ππ«π€π£π¬πππ
ββββββββββ
Von laid back on his bed, starin' at the ceilin', apartment quiet as hell without you there. Shiit ainβt feel the same. It felt empty, coldβlike all that bread, all that fame, all that respect he got in the streets ainβt mean nothinβ without you.
He had everythin' nowβchains, cars, mansions, opps that feared him, fans that loved him. But he ainβt have you. And he knew exactly why. He fucked up. Over and over again.
Two weeks of runninβ around with every chick that wanted him, thinkinβ it wouldnβt catch up to him. But they told you. All of βem. And now? You were gone. And he couldnβt even be mad at you for it.
Von sighed, rubbin' his face, feelin' that guilt in his chest heavy as hell. It wasnβt the hood that ruined yβall. It was him. His own damn dreamsβmusic, fame, all that shiitβtook him away from the only person that was there when nobody else did.