By Blaize Burton
Better myself through wisdom because wisdom is power. At least
that’s what they taught me as a juvenile. Be fake
for some later. Get a degree and suit, and even pale faces
will seem a little friendly now.
For me the job market’s dead–somebody better got the gig.
The people that crave my support are getting hunger pains.
This woman that I love would rather starve than miss the club.
Now I know she only got with me for the finer things.
My survival is a crime; I lost myself about a dime.
Now it’s murky, even to myself, who the real victim is.
So I get down on my knees. Is some juice worth this squeeze?
When they’ll shoot me in the back over unimportant shit.
I just had so much control with the pistol barrel cold,
until my heat met the streets and all my shit unraveled.
As the seasons change, I lose my soul, only praying for parole.
Questioning the meaning of life when my messiah swings a gavel.
Freedoms a funny feeling because I barely know my children.
I can’t stand to see myself in the light of day.
So I catch another case and come right back to this place.
Still with no clue why I’m the one that always has to pay.