one low bullet.

the same motherfuckers that only come around when i was winning—

are the same motherfuckers that stomp me when i’m apologizing and i’m sorry.

i’m sorry that i can’t be who i want to be.

i’m sorry i’m not what you want me to be.


so i guess i’ll stick to my liquor tear shed,

and have another ‘bitch’ in my bed just to push me to the edge,

and make me want to lock myself in a room and shoot myself in the head.


one bullet for every nigga that’s ever wanted me dead.

soon there won’t be any of me left because—

well, so many of these niggas kicked me until I bled— like I said—

i will be alone until the day i die.


i don’t know why i continue to try to fight this and

i’ve finally realized THAT the lower i get. 

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world


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