Bearoshi ·
Tha Story Pt.2
He Became —
He became the man of the house when he was only eight years old
Trying to feel shoes in his size four that weren't his own
Because dad left the scene like the director told him to take five, now
Drips of misunderstood tears come from his eyes, so much, that if he could plant his life
It will sprout like rain flowers blossoming through the night
You see, this boy's story was like the first of the month
when the checks don't come
Or like a slave to a life, which was his own, being beat by no father figure whips
Being hung by family hands he couldn't grip
He asks himself, with his face buried into cotton pillows
While leaving puddles of questions on the carpet, so every step you take
You hear screams of frustration,
his emotions playing like strings of sad sympathy
This journey called struggle walks with him during the day,
sleeps with him at night
Living in a home with one brother, one sister, one mothers pray,
and fathers echoing
Footsteps leaving through the back wooden door
Questions rooms in his head, what is this life, that takes me by the hands
Dragging me through concrete jungles
That's filling my mind as water leaks through ceilings into buckets
With thoughts that "instead of solving math problems and
writing history reports
My life was like loose change at cash registers, always coming up short"
No footsteps to follow, only drowning in my sorrow
Never knew if I ever get the chance to meet the sun and
the moon until tomorrow
Being raised by colorless pain
Trying to paint my life with question mark paint brushes
Never seen a perfect picture, only my stroke-less answers
I'm speaking of being a man at the age of twelve, growing up around
Nothing but dirt rolling, police patrolling
Didn't have time for friends,
they were too busy with hands behind backs, facing about ten
And now I'm left stuck with these poverty scares
Trying to heal wounds with these white pages and blue lines,
and a pen that tells the story
