Here I sit in Exile, chisel my face, profile,
I wish I could fake my death, leave this lifestyle,
cause this place I revile, I'm trapped, but meanwhile,
The world outside goes on without me,
my parents don't trust, they doubt me,
black van 'cross the street, stake-out me,

You claim to carry a gun, know how to use it?
I wish you would gimmie an excuse to lose it.
If your in the market for the best,
I'll paint a target on my chest,
with no vest, unlike the rest,
and if you're smart,
shoot me in the heart,
or thru the eyes 2 tha brain,
head to the barrel, end this reign of pain,
and the mark of my distain will be a bloodstain,
so redecorate the room in "brain-matter" grey,
have lil kids in the blood splatter, play,
and remember that it doesn't matter what you say

__________________

Y'all get the sickness when I spit the wickedness.