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 bars.
To follow Pariah’s work, visit his Instagram @godhands888
