Look, Mom, I finally took form.
You never gave lectures.
You thought I was stubborn.
Your son is just headstrong.
But I must have hit my head on something.
If it wasn’t the headboard, it was the ceiling. That’s what I head for.
My teachers were dead wrong.
I never took to the streets, only risks.
Even if my dreams got stepped on, I made it out of the matrix.
I’m patient but surgical with it, no matter how many takes.
It took a village.
The grass isn’t greener on the other side. Some of it is synthetic.
Esoterics embedded through my epidermis, words of a sermon never spoke to my person.
My soul’s purpose is searching every day for diversions.
Recreational drugs were suppressing the urges because living in the slums leads to excursions.
I could write you a couple of verses about the things that occurred
And put into words everything that my neurons conversed.
Picture me growing up; I was never the nerd, but always looking through my window,
wondering how the universe worked.
Pick apart any art, I found a way to unlearn all the things that were leaving a burn.