Confused

Here's what happens: you grow up living the block life, you know the one where you love the Lord but also love the blunt. Where your mother loves you but doesn't care about the what block you're on 12 am. You find her sitting on a bench, reading the coldest winter ever by sister souljah, drinking a Arizona counting the bee's attracted to the strawberry scent of her navel. You bite your tongue to measure the beats of your heart per blink. Her skin is laid smooth and her hair laced up tightly underneath her silk scarf. You ask her what time is it your eyes are fixed on the Golden emblem backdropped by the hazel tint of her skin so beautiful it hurts but You Keep on walking, she probably doesn't like girls anyway