With a history of violence, survival is everything.
Here in a culture of natural born rappers and trappers, pimps and ball players,
I seek to find my bread and butter elsewhere.
Does that give me any less soul than this brother or that brother?
Does desperation take root in the spoiled soil of uncertainty?
Man has proven time and time after not to be trusted;
no tribe is exempt from this truth.
What about the real ballers and shot callers underneath
located in the garden of doctors, lawyers, teachers, and writers?
Labels and names should not matter and should not define,
yet I have seemingly come to terms
and view my own nature of hypocritical practice.
A new soul now,
I should take this new soil,
planting within a seed for the tree of knowledge.
Here I look to reap more than prosperity;
I hope to grow wisdom to survive on…