Sleeping in a **** soaked mattress,
With sounds of gunshots,
That keep me up late.
Got me all depressed,
Wondering if I’m next to be popped in the chest.
But the question is…
Will it be by my own people?
Or by the cops?
Gang mentality is my ******* reality,
Every day comes with a new tragedy.
In slums called reservations,
Wishing I wasn’t Cree.
For all I see is starvation.
And my family,
The ones that are supposed to protect me.
Are out drinking.
Leaving me and siblings scrambling,
Looking for scraps in dumpsters.
And than at night we hide from monsters.
That try to sneak in our beds,
Having their way till our eyes bleed red.
Praying to God, that I’d drop dead.

Growing up on the Rez,
Where you can’t even trust your own friends.
Growing up in trauma,
Because society tried to have us cleansed.

Growing up on the Rez,
Unable to get ahead,
Growing up in trauma,
Confined and ensnared.

Some months I wonder where my parents went?
Probably on another ******.
Or maybe in they in jail or some AA centre.
Trying their hardest to forget.
Being ***** by nuns, priests, and teachers.
Maybe that explains my dads hot temper.
And starts to lose control a becomes an abuser.
Slamming my brothers and sisters, against  some phony happy family pictures.
And there’s no use going to hospital centres.
Cause they’d rather let you die, than help some prairie ******.
And maybe all this abuse,
Got me all confused, whether I like Peter’s or Beavers.
Which than leads to wondering,
If I’ve been cursed by the Creator.
Wondering when he’s going drop a crater,
On a this savage sinner.
And if that’s the case,
For my last dinner.
I’ll take some real genuine love, that can break the chains of being bitter.

Growing up on the Rez,
Where you can’t even trust your own friends.
Growing up in trauma,
Because society tried to have us cleansed.

Growing up on the Rez,
Unable to get ahead,
Growing up in trauma,
Confined and ensnared.