| It’s not real to be hard, in fact it’s hard to be real
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| And you gotta been through it, to know how I feel
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| I stood still plenty of times, my back against the wall
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| Crying for help, but nobody answered my call
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| And all I can do is reminisce, when I was a kid
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| Growing up, there’s a lot I could of changed that I did
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| And now, I intend to adjust myself
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| Though I’m grown I still hear voices whispering, (can I trust myself)
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| I use to wanna grab for a gun, and bust myself
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| But that ain’t right, and Lord knows I would of disgust myself
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| I had to move alone, and prove 'em wrong
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| They John Q’s boy, showed that I’m too strong
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| I’m from the small section, we call the Y-Stone
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| Where our world and lifestyle, spins fast as a cyclone
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| And it seems, everytime one of my dogs get home
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| It’s like five-six-seven or eight, others get gone
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| And I know that it’s hard, out here
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| I hate to complain, but Lord I swear
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| I’m just trying to hold on, better yet I’m trying to keep it together
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| I got the puzzle, but I can’t seem to put these pieces together |
| I’m on that other shit, that born and raised in the gutter shit
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| Where most of these niggas come up, trying to slang that butter shit
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| There’s no longer a war on Iraq, there’s a war on the black
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| Right now in every ghetto, there’s a war on crack
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| See, the moral of my story is
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| There’s nothing out here, that can make you notorious
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| Cause money don’t make the man, just make what he got
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| But materialistically, that’s what most folk think it’s about and that’s fucked
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| up
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| (*talking*)
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| Uh, I wanna send some shout out’s right quick, yeah
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| Holla at my little sisters and, J-Weezy, what’s up Jenny
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| Saqoia got ya, this one right here for y’all, Kiesh'
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| Cindo, Lil' Nick, my big sister Nicola, Whitebread Peckerwood |