Im fucking tired, tired of fucking, I seem to get laid,
try to navigate and handle it but half of what I say-
is the madness of my brain when it refuses to reason,
my pocket' full of change, the new currency for freedom,
have no worries I believe that I can fly-, touch the sky,
making change for better ways as heavyweights collide,
on the seventh day there better be a better way cause I,
can see eleven and eleven in every peace of mind,
breathe and than I breathe is my meaning of time,
I trust rhymes, courage, highs and burning sensations,
Im learning patience, worried by my cursing and creating,
a disturbing combination in a nervous conversation,
every word i play is making a mistake i will regret it,
Im turning pages while Im playing chess against the heavens,
de-pression in my chest but I am blessed to even have it,
as habit I will gamble doesnt matter what the stakes are,
do it for the love and for the mad stacks of paper,

living is funny still playing on the edge,
making images of money and printing em from my head,