The Psyche part 1
I was only eight when my teachers told my parents I wasn’t shit
A short fifty-something blonde playing John Broadus
My moms gave me a list of the people who made it in pop culture
Trying to mold my future from attention deficit disorder
Saw Magic Johnson on the list and wanted to be him
Without knowing what the fuck H.I.V. is
So I pounded the concrete with a rubber ball, and didn’t accomplish shit
The only way I felt special was through my philosophical writings
Where I could pretend to be a drug dealer, a warlord, or a thug
And turned this psychological experiment into a drug
That I could never kick like Coltrane did heroin
This neurotic narcotic helped me develop my own injections
Would help me detox from my day like a hot dose of horse
But my life was destined to take its own course
Few friends so I created my own world in which I was king
From basketball to music, I was God, and wrote down my theologies
Known to many as a wannabe
Noticed subtle suburban racism when I rocked my first FUBU tee
Asked me if I wanted to be Black
Tried to take it as a compliment, but their country club minds couldn’t adapt
To the fact that my mindstate was cultured from petri plates
That included godsisters from the worst ghettos in the state
Cabrini-Green women who forced me into an affair with Hip-Hop
From Kris Kross, to stuttering, “Ya D-Don’t stop!”
I rubbed the arms on our love seats to get the sound of scratching
Ten years later, I converted that love into rapping…
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