i do this shit to express what's real
Fuck a life. Fuck the hurt. Fuck concern. Fuck a wife.
Lately i feel like for me it's more deserving to die.
Cuz at times I get this murderous vibe with every person in sight
And it's reaccurence reassures me that i'm probably right.
To me, it's not a hobby to write. I do this shit to express whats real.
and when i flex it's to shed what I tend to conceal
No pretending when I put the pen to the pad
I'm extending what my brain has failed to put in my past.
A foot in the ass to any haters who doubt me
I know more than forty soldiers who wouldn't have made it out without me...
Maybe more that ive laid to rest, dear god, "is it too late to confess?"
I want to stand at those pearly gates but i could never ace your test.
I'm a waste of a breath. A disgrace at best.
War's over....guess i'm too fuckin late for death.
I expect these next steps are bizzare, i heard its especially hard
To forgive yourself and live...
Cuz sometimes things are better left the way that they are.
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