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To much times been wasted sitting, living. Staring for miles. Made a reputation spiting, ripping. Kids going wild. Still so many troubles, that there starting to effect my style. trying to keep my head up, before my enemies cop my style. Dealt with so many fakes, still no brakes don't know hot to get past this sate. Trying to mack moves against fake cru's, that cant relate. given pound to pound face to face turn around they gathering mass, to steel your bitch cash and place then lafh in your face. Death seems better then what this shit brings. Constant thoughts of killings. Children getting stabbed, bombs falling though selling's. Shit no feelings left in this mess life's preparing for death. Or so it seems you kids would rather rest in your chest. watching time, smuggling dimes, popping nine, committing crimes. I'm sick of this shit, Cant watt to be free of your kind. Sick of troubles man. One day well be free.