Proper ’12

They want you when you’re under spotlights.
But,
When I step into the dark,
They hate what they see and lock eyes,
On what they now call a monster.
Proper.
Funny how I’m writing this at 12,
Like Conor.
Thinking all about how I left all the demons in my corner trying foster,
An angel with Horns on my head.
But,
I’ve been a champion in my own right!
Been a fighter all throughout life.
I’m one they see as the Ultimate when I’m spitting out rhymes.
Punchlines,
Whether you call for it or not.
I may put you in a box,
Either way,
And ring bells while I rock lives through the rhythm.
Like Anita Ward when I ward my vision,
From those attempting to take it away with another fable written…

Who cares?
Though.
Been alone for a long time while my mind gets low,
Dipping into thoughts of putting ropes,
All around my neck and elope,
With Death as my own reaper…

But,
Why would I want to do that?
Some people may ask,
Yet,
Will never understand,
Why it’s hard to even wake up,
And laugh.
When everybody all around you wouldn’t even lend a hand.
Anytime I’ve been down and out while I pad,
My room up with a wall full of cans and a dash,
Of marijuana buds burning my soul into ash…

You wanted honesty.
I’m just talking to you all,
Honestly.
You either like it,
Or,
Get up off of me…
I write to find peace and kill this Devil cutting my heart into pieces.
With good reason.
Because,
On stage,
They call me an angel no matter the demons.
When I’m off of it?
I’m the demon in the eyes of those that I love comitting treason…
And,
I’m just trying to figure out why…
While I lay on my bed at night,
As I feel defeated…