Poetry

What is distress in the land of opportunity My life is a snitch because in the end she's always telling on me I'm falling further into the abyss and its taking a tole on me It feels nobody can get a grappling hooks hold on me The further I fall the more I grow lonely Even walking in my own shoes I feel like a phony I got the cold shoulder from the only Person on this earth who ever cared to truly know me I'm many things but not the face of defeat So if you need somebody to rag on you better not look at me Because my tongue is a gun so I kill it when I speak I'm not Muhammad the prophet But the promise to the week And in this world of black and white Even the grey area is bleak And if you use it to your advantage You'll probably catch a beef I'm Rastafari in belief I wish Mama Africa was at peace Stick to your guns but your clip will thin eventually And when Death looms close all ominous and ghostly You too will feel the same perpetual degree of kill me The question is when will you crack When will you start with the weeping and the moaning When you realize that their's no one you call to help thee Because in the end, all we will ever have is poetry