I dont write these poems to help you with your sanity
Clear up your blood shot eyes like Visine
Tell you about what's wrong from right
I aint your mama and I sure don't wanna be
Cased in a cardboard box
Hanging up pictures of 'Home Sweet Home'
Washing your dirty clothes and fixing your food
Your baby mama, labeled under project drama
Screaming in the phone, beggin for a check
Waiting for the mail man
First come first serve, Ist of the month
I won't sing of your battles in old wise tales
Brag about your victories, 'cause success stories remain faint
Looking out the window, staring at the building
High rise to stay fly
Stay high, so I wont cry
These tears of how broke I am and how school seems so far away
Dreaming big about better days
Listening to Tupac on them rainy days
And pop pills to get over it
Play scratch offs with hopes to get my money back
Count pennies for the holidays, just to save up for presents
With debts that stretch from here to the North Pole
Now who's still sold on the story of St. Nicholas?
More like the Grinch
I mean Government, Harriet Tub-man
We still walking, using the Underground Railroad
Playing with old mud pies called Ipods
Which cost money, Greenbacks
That thing that makes your palm itch
That's why we scratching
Trynna figure out the meaning between Money and Love
I guess you'll never know
But still, that's not my job to let you know the answer