Before I Write I Let My Mind

I Was Looking For A Father, He Was Gone. I Hung Around With The Thugs, And Even Though They Sold Drugs, They Showed A Young Brother Love.

If You Walked By A Street And You Was Walking A Concrete And You Saw A Rose Growing From Concrete, Even If It Had Messed Up Petals And It Was A Little To The Side You Would Marvel At Just Seeing A Rose Grow Through Concrete. So Way Is It That When You See Some Ghetto Kid Grow Out Of The Dirtiest Circumstance And He Can Talk And He Can Sit Across The Room And Make You Cry, Make You Laugh, All You Can Talk About Is My Dirty Rose, My Dirty Stems And How Am Leaning Crooked To The Side, U Can't Even See That I've Come Up From Out Of That.

Everybody Against Me. Why? Why Me? I Have Not Brought Violence To You. I Have Not Brought Thug Life To America. I Didn't Create Thug Life. I Diagnosed It.

I Feel Close To Marvin Gaye, Vincent Van Gogh, Because Nobody Appreciated His Work Until He Was Dead. Now It's Worth Millions.

My Cellmate's Raped On The Norm, And Passed Around The Dorm, You Can Hear His Asshole Getting Torn.