There's a poor little bastard, who sits in his filth cluttered room and thinks
"Am I a step in God's plan or a pawn in the Devil's game?"
A bastard son, cursed to wake and see the light of another day
It's humiliating to breathe in this skin
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, disappointed that he's still breathing
Surrender the virus from his head that eats him up like syphilis
He was happy for one hour until his mother told him he was dreaming
He says "I will leave the world the same way I came in, like an accident"
Stare into the dismorphic mirror, only to see it really wasn't him
So they Traumatized him with scripture, believing it would make him clean
Dream, a man with a big head and ugly face much like himself tells him
"Son you're only dreaming so wake up, it isn't really me"
Tearing away, punch, kick, and scream
"No clarity, for I, my thoughts will murder me"
There's a tomb stone that shares his last name
The man sleeping there was always screaming
His genetic makeup consists of mistakes, lying, and self-pity
He had another dream that night
His eyes closed and he woke up in the same room where it happened
That same wooden table, that same ash tray, that same father, the same 9mm
He witnessed art in the making
A sullen face, a bullet, and a wall for the canvas
A blood splatter, like a symmetrical ink blot
It's like looking into a mirror of my future he thought