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
Warmonger 