I wrote a rap 2 years ago

Dear Dad,

All the anger in the world, can’t help me understand
Maybe you’ll get it now, now that you don’t have command.
Makin’ plans, makin’ fans, police gave you the upper hand
I hope you get the backhand
Maybe then you’ll understand
That you can’t talk- daughter to father, monster to monster
You made this thing, tore this thing, wore this thing- a badge of honor
Shards of heart and the envy that you ate
You bragged about how much I made you hate
Life


Is just a dream, when you’re stuck among the beams
Of the loft,
Cough cough.
Sick of this bullshit.
Why’d I hold the ladder?  Why’d I grab the tool kit?
I don’t get it.


Brother was a “girl”, and I wasn’t enough
Don’t you understand? Your hate has made me tough
It was rough, it was bad, your attempts are pretty sad.
Good dad.  Hell yeah, with a finger on my chest.
I detest.


Tug my ear, over here, yeah now I’m seeing clear.
You’re the master of guilt and the horror in disguise.
Surprise!
There’s a reason she married you, you can see it in her eyes.
Or maybe you can’t, your vision- it defies.


You bought the ring and she bought into you.
Then she saw your Mr. Hyde and there was nothing left to do.
“I had you, Maria.  It was worth it for you and your brother.”
But she still hung on for the sake of each other.


Not like I needed it.  You’re fire in a net.
Wasting your power on your goddamn television set.
Fox News, brain bruise; political rage
I swear, shared parenting is nothing but a cage.


But I don’t mind, I really don’t. 
You made us broke.
Xbox-fine, but on the price of shoes- you choke?
You have the house, the keys, and your country land of dreams.
You even have the girls, or so your phone screams.


Retired and lonely, yeah right, you fucking phony.
I know you know your lies can’t control me.
I’m of broken faith, but a soul just and true.
And now I’m telling me the truth about you.


You’re a liar, a fake, and a madman with the upperhand
But evil won’t escape, I hope you understand.
I’m in command.
I’m in command.

Crazy People (A Ramble by Me)

What if the crazy people are the only ones who get it?
How many times have we been told that is a possibility- through books, television, and movies?
And yet here we are, still shrugging people off because we are afraid of them if they don’t act like everyone else.
I don’t have a suggestion that ends in anything more than a thought but,
Next time you encounter someone strange, think about what makes you normal.
Rudeness.  Silence.  Close-mindedness.  Not showing your true self.
Somehow it became a societal law to shield yourself because of the dark, cruel place we peg this world to be- a world we have created, based in things like silence, rudeness, and close-mindedness.   It’s a vicious cycle.
What if the crazy people, the strange ones you stay away from to protect yourself, are the ones who could save you?  You’re under control by the guilt you have in your heart for being anything but what you were told to be.  This guilt causes you to try and be like everyone else so you don’t let yourself or anyone else down.  Standards.
You could be free.
But you won’t be.  You’ll never let that strange person into your heart as long as you are under the control of your own guilt.
The crazy people probably have it right.
But based on the idea that reality is what we make it,
You’ll never really know.

The Goddess

It’s a strange thing.
When you’re put on an impossible pedestal.
And the people you considered friends,
Are suddenly just fans, people who only care about their image of you,
Are inspired by the idea of you,
Are dying to just spend moments
With the pretty girl in boots,
And not the person you really are.
They’re madly in love with delusion,
And you know so little of them that a guilt, a searing guilt
Settles within your heart.
For seeing them as they are, instead of an illusion like you.
You know you did this.
You wished long ago to be adored.
Pushed aside, you despised being an outcast…
Now look at you.
You pathetic waste.
You’re beautiful,
So elegant,
Intelligent,
Funny,
Classy,
A goddess…
But people don’t make friends with gods.
The outcast you were manifested into a martyr of your morals.
Reborn into a ghost of your hidden sins.
They love you for everything you believe you are not.
And you are not.
You are a goddess of a facade created by the minds of men,
Who do not believe in gods, but only in the art of them.