My Life

Yo, nearing the image of suicide growing up in a world where my drink of choice was cyanide, you think I lied, this poetry harder than most writers who have lived or died
Writing with blood dripping down my arm trying to disarm my mind before I dismantle everything in my body, my head down gripping a shotgun, out here they don’t have funny names, because in these parts they don’t play little stupid games

Even these parts, walking around skinny with scratches on your wrist, wearing hand me down jeans laced with your little brothers pissed

Your face…stained with my and daddy’s fist

They were going to fornicate or get drunk quit before they got real mad and they’d start into a violent fit
this is real life, making weapons when you’re three

My eyes so closed I had teach myself how to see, while I got judged for my pants that didn’t match the tee

In a rich little school where looks were the key

Hated by my own race, it came natural

Listening to metal that sounded a lot more factual

Rocking my body back and forth with my walls splattered with blood, my back covered in sweat and going downtown with my life being my first bet

Some said quit the sad talk, be happy

With my teeth all fucked and my hair still nappy

How was I supposed to have a chance, born with a predisposition?

I’m not strong enough to keep seeing my dad’s dead body or listening to my mother flipping

 

The music sounds like an orchestra, waiting my for mom to hit me with a nice hard slap and my dad out of the corner of my eye, wielding a baseball bat
My aunt Cleo said she knew what was going on, but she was to busy watching the game to even Yawn

Injuries matched with inconsistencies, I tried to make myself a different entity

But I was so from it, I didn’t just free fall I gunned it

Feeling like massacring everything and everyone around me, but I loved them to much to see, the amount of pain that I had grown to relive and give on paper

Scars as long as your intuition, looking for a friend

Screaming holding my ears as a pre-teen waiting for the brutality to end

Forced to defend and now I’m subjected to therapy

With some old white woman named Marty telling me to go and school and learn all types of fancy grammar

My words have the Killswitch and the pencil is the hammer

Looked down by most as a heathen and some a fiend

Killed before I even became a teen, the smell of the mop on the floor with the blood curdled up by the door

Get scared during movies, feeling weird when seventeen year old boy is a virgin, expected to become a whore or at least blow something up wearing some type of turban

They say they understand me but the most they could handle is my description being a little bit urban

If this is to dark, I dare you to not proceed

Because for once I’ll be the mouth and you’ll be the meat