Living in the mentality of borrowed time,
what is already yours is inconveniently mine.
With hands we took and held up high,
in our defences, an unportrayable fire.
Compute an equation that does not add up,
the eyes we forced open inconceivably shut.
Blaming the youngsters for the unfortunate luck-
don't you realize that they're already fucked?
Only for the reason that they take it hard,
with the intention of proving who they really are.
Caught on the premises with stones in heart,
thinking thoughts like fire and dreams like darts.
Bruises are crop circles in wide open fields,
cuts are interruptions in illicit heroin deals.
Does it create an illusion or is it what I feel,
are you a hallucination or are you real?