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If I'm a product of the fuckery,

Then why is it always me vs. me?

Is it wrong to be motivated for success, almost entirely by the simple future pleasure of shoving it in your doubters faces?

I love my grungy roots, but every man's for himself. By 27 years old I laid 27 friends/family to rest, not one of them was over 29 years old. Lost one for every year of life I've breathed. Cant make this up. I raised myself from nothing, in a farmland-hood, that's known for being the 21st most violent city in the entire U.S., the 4th most sex trafficked city in the U.S., 10th most murderous city in the U.S.and the number 1 most drug infested, overdosed city in the U.S., where you have a 98% chance each year of being a victim of a violent crime, with the number 1 and 2 most prevalent of crimes being murderer and rape. And the city 45 minutes south of me is even worse in all these areas. Surrounded. I've seen the worst side of man kind more than not. I remember thinking it was all normal. I can't leave now, I have to help my city, plus the sickness has poisoned me. I'm more comfortable here, I don't fit into normalcy now. I was born to amount to nothing, shouldn't be alive, died and came back. I'm not wasting my second chance. Where I'm from, many don't even get 1 chance. I'm making it count. And when I make it, I got a big white ass and a list of people gonna kiss it. Don't come to my city and doubt me! On one today! Sorry, not sorry. Fierce motivation.

Spoken

Do something to become known.

How do I own?

Gain a platform.

In what form?

Use your gifts.

What do I have to offer it?

Trust yourself.

What the hell?

Words

Once I let the words escape their confines,

They are no longer mine.

I do what I do,

For you.

Each verse,

Now belongs to the universe.

From my mind, I can delete.

It's now complete.

In this moment,

I no longer recall a hint,

Not a word,

Not a blurb.

At times, I don't even know,

That the words were once my own.

It's now written down,

For the crowd.