Laying Down and Waking Up a Slave in Texas

			It’s poetic…
	In Texas, we’re trapped in pits with small widdows.
	Inside these cells, we’re funding our own imprisonment;
	the chains are encrypted inside the chips and soup sales.
We’re inside of an identity crisis believing our souls out of favors,
			So we accept the chains;
	believing a greater change will come save us…
			Can you dig that?!?!
	I guess that Willie Lynch Syndrome dies hard in some places.
			Since I’m older now,
	In these younger guys I see my own reflection.
	It seems as if the hate for ourselves is baked in
			Perhaps it takes breaking one down,
	in order to build one up and to make a man.
			I used to beat up on myself!
	The whipping took away my strength…
Then I killed my bad habits and drug ‘em to a ditch!
	I changed from a threat to a promise;
	but in Texas I’ll always be a number/
			Every day it’s the same old song…
	In doubt: our systematic-scars found a home.
	In Texas: It’s death before parole.
	In unity: we can overcome!
			But we won’t…
	Because by the throat we’re holding our resolve
			under the water.
		Christians and Muslims accept this torture.
	The trauma cemented the bangers in a corner;
	Set-tripping, cooking drink and getting stoned.
		I envision us standing up for ourselves,
	and not being exploited with little to no health care. 	
		But tomorrow we’ll be back in the “Fields,”—
		under a sun giving off heat like hell!
There ain’t a night I don’t look beyond these walls—with cataract
		eyes, and pull in the stars.
			Today’s a blessing…
		Every good one I’ll record them.
	Tomorrow I’ll wake up behind these

					Written by Pariah A.K.A. Robert Cooper
					IG: @godhands888