The Story Goes On

(álbum: Masters Of The Dark Arts - 2012)

His father died young, never knew him to shield him from the rain
Starting shooting heroin at fourteen to numb the pain
Track marks similar to tattoos, tell the story of a sad fool
Tragic monologue of a man who
Became a victim of half-truths and whispered secrets
His own inner-demons, syringes and lesions
Crack pipes and binges on weekends
Led to benders and blackouts that last for seasons
For no apparent reasons he never had children
He was a child in a man's body
Found joy in the thrill of the streets and crack parties
Robbing drug dealers, selling dope, selling soap
Locked in the belly of the beast where the felons roam
Gift of gab, quick-witted with the clever soul
Couldn't keep him from catching a buck-fifty in his dome
Matter of fact, more like two-fifty, too shifty
His name was Howie but on Rikers Island he was gypsy

Time and time again, as I pick up the pen
As my thoughts emerge, these are those words
I glance at the paper to know what's going on
Someone's doing wrong, the story goes on

A lot of stuff happens that the news won't tell you's
Blues on L juice, snooze, all hell loose

State of the slums, kill for a plate of crumbs
Fake ones, they're coarse with smiles and snake tongues

Fuck a clan or a cult man, I stand by my own
All by myself grown up but fuck you I'm abandoned, disowned
I'm alive and thriving, driving like a bandit with gold
You ain't got no balls so you don't understand it at all
I'm America's nightmare, I'm a werewolf with soul
I'm unbearable with no fam I'm just terrible yo
I have hate in my heart so when I tear a new hole
In all your dreams and ideals, momma where would you go?
Watched my father betray me baby watched Erica go
That's interference, I just wanted Terrance to grow
Steering clear of all these voices I can hear in my skull
Here in my head, surrounded by these spirits is dead
Who are you to trust and who I am to judge it?
This is do-or-die, suicide on a budget
You can hate or love it but I put it on my motherfucking mother
That I came out and I ain't going back to the gutter

Time and time again, as I pick up the pen
As my thoughts emerge, these are those words
I glance at the paper to know what's going on
Someone's doing wrong, the story goes on

A lot of stuff happens that the news won't tell you's
Blues on L juice, snooze, all hell loose

State of the slums, kill for a plate of crumbs
Fake ones, they're coarse with smiles and snake tongues