Wrestling Devils

Roots from the Father that tossed the seed

The rotten apple of children left to sprout his own leaves

The black sheep of the family tree who's now breathing in green

Not even knowing what it means

I question everything n' everyone;

Fluoride in the water got me sipping on the Evian

Getting slept on like bitches with their bevy on

Could I hang with anyone when I turn the telly on?

People questioning aggression & pain;

But of course I'm moody, man it used to be my last name

Putting the cro to propane, just hoping the rain'll turn to rays

On the pavements I was raised just to pave a brighter way

Now it's 4 am again n' I'm flexing this pen

I haven't slept cos I haven't thought the right rhyme to write yet

So fuck the mic check; I might wreck the mic set

Wrestling with the devils in Sutherland's head

I be that bubonic plague; I'm bound to blow

To epidemic waves spitting sickening flows

Punch force alike Thor's hammer throw with one blow

Crushing jaws to nose-bones through your domes past the Ozone

This is what I was put on this Earth-to-do-since birth

It's everything I'm worth, the only thing that's even worth the work

It's a blessing & curse; until rest in a hearse

I'll be stressing with the words n' digesting herbs

Fuck that bitch, I don't need her shit

Bun a spliff and just forget she exists

Sometimes I think if I was rich then I would be a drug-addict

Panicking on Prozac just to run from past habits

I'm past stoned; so stoned I'm in the past, though-

My present ain't a gift like the Grinch was is in this mad dome

Enclosed in my DNA's engravings on my gravestone

It's set in stone, my fate's closed; I better face the microphone

Never need friends; nowadays I count on a hand

Cos in these ends you can't even trust your own Dads

It's sad so many lad's have taught themselves to be a man

Like Sutherland when my Ma' was working nights to get scran

In a family tree prone to having a heart attacks;

Having panic attacks on Prozac, pen to notepad

I wrote that my hearts black as lungs from the blow-back

On phone-pad's the triple 9 on-call like my dope, lad

I know that; if I keep going the way I'm going, man-

My toe-tag'll be in the morgue before I know that

I hope that my act cleans itself but due to cold facts;

I'll end up as an alcoholic junkie with no flat

I don't call that! To me your nine to fives a fall-back

There's no chance that no rap of mine'll make a dope track

I hold that on Carter, Jay, Lace n' Cam in bold caps;

If I'm not making a living of spitting then I'll swallow Jacks