Help or Jail?

November 6, 2017

I was thinking that I was sitting in a cell

Never been there but it felt like hell

I told my momma “Please hurry up, post up some bail”

The place that was supposed to help us felt more like jail

The way that they looked at us, like we were good for absolutely nothing

I knew that I had to get out, because I know I’m good for something

And even though the voices were all there in my head

The way they treated me, they probably thought I was better off dead

They thought I was a Schizo, but I could still spit though

Still had that sick flow, so it had to be something else

They asked about my past, and saw that it was vast

With trials and tribulations that damaged me so fast

So it had to be anxiety, but how could that even be?

How can a feeling hurt you so dangerously?

How can that feeling create something that isn’t even there?

And God why did you make life not fair?

Call it jail, since I told myself I’m never going back

Promised that I wouldn’t let stress control me like crack

Only music is the only drug that I’ll ever use for guidance

To avoid all the stress and the internal violence

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