Within My Prison

Smoking my pipe.
Shoulders feeling heavy.
This weight is ripe.
I can only hope it bears fruit.
Too tired of coming in second.
For years it's been dormant, but itching.
Now that it's unleashed along with this anger I fear for those who get in my way. They're in danger.
I can no longer suppress my fire. Nor do I want to.
I'm smouldering slowly.
This duality of not giving a fuck and caring all at once has me going a little mad.
Through all the trying times I've become more bad.
The stress has me trippin at times, wanting paper, flashy rides, and flawless dimes.
I give more than I get in return.
It's said he who gives it all will one day be returned all ten fold.
I feel like I'm on my last days in prison. Parol only a few moments away. I'm going mad.
I've did my time and then some.
I want out.

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