I’m pissed off about ninety percent of the time
The other ten I’m asleep or I’ve already died
People ask me why I look so angry, I should be pleased to be alive
Keep asking me for reasons, and my right hand will give you five
I’ve got ability, but why do I feel I’m not moving forward
Every time I write a verse it feels like I’m wasting more words
When I draw an image it feels like I’m wasting all my graphite
I want to be happy, but it’s tough to keep up that fight
That’s right, I’m past depressed, now it’s just frustration
My life seems to be governed by more laws than a police station
Now I’ve eaten, so my fury is a bit sedated
But eventually I’ll remember all that I hated
And all that I hate, they continue to provoke me
I live with a sense of paranoia that the world will revoke me
If I vanished, it’s not like it’d matter really
Because I keep to myself mainly, not used to touchy-feely
You might look at what I’m saying, mark it off as nonsensical
But the truth behind the words won’t be sensed by your receptacle
How can you feel my emotion over your computer monitor?
Easy—I don’t have any emotions for your computer to monitor
I’m cold like a blizzard on a dark December’s night
I don’t feel true happiness, excitement, never really feel fright
This is dragging on, but I’m not sure if I care
Expressing my thoughts has always been something I’d dare
I’m not very secretive, I like to let people smell my shit stink
It’s been suggested that my immaturity is holding me back
But that’s strange when my maturity just keeps ’em coming back
People keep telling me don’t worry, you’re only 20?
What the fuck does THAT matter? I still contemplate plenty
In that case, I guess I have a forty year-old mind
It likes to keep me going, never let me just unwind
It’s like a contant struggle between the physical and mental
I wish I could go back to simplicity, when everything was just placental
I tried to stay two weeks late, but with a Caesarean section
The umbilical cord was cut, eventually I’d face my reflection
I was never much of a pretty boy, more of the underdog
Always the kid wondering what the fuck he’s doing wrong
Why he had no friends and why the bullies wanted his stuff
Wondering why for such a smart child he had it so rough
Wondering why he liked it indoors in the summer, writing his stories
Wondering what his parents saw that they thought he’s destined for glory
Well if it’s supposed to be glorious, then what the fuck is this?
If happiness is the prize, I guess the method’s hit and miss
Still reading? This isn’t interesting—it’s just a stupid rant
I’m just trying to soldier on like a colony of red ants
Speaking of ants, my aunt apparently took my hair as a child
So she could put a curse on me, now isn’t that wild?
So goes the story from my grandmother, who’s losing her grip
Same one who’s separated from me by a five-hour trip
But back on topic. What if that hex is pure reality
And that magic from my childhood is what’s steady nagging me?
Oh, there I go again. Always have to go and blame something
Other than myself—perhaps I’m in avoidance of all the reprecussions
I’ve done better than this I know, but this shit it ain’t for show
Don’t know if Doomz will live long enough to ever make it pro
Know what? I’m growing tired of posting these rhymes
Exuding my exuberant life in a finite set of lines
I think I’ll go and make myself more productive
What was the message in this shit? I think y’all better get deductive.
–case p.
Doomz Freestyle.
