Scapegoat
It’s the caffeine, the nicotine, the milligrams of tar.
It’s my habitat.
It needs to be cleaned.
It’s my car.
It’s the fast talk they use to abuse and feed my brain.
It’s the cat box.
It needs to be changed.
It’s the pain.
It’s women.
It’s the fight for power.
It’s government.
It’s the way you’re given knowledge, slow with thought control and subtle hints.
It’s rubbing it, itching it.
It’s applying cream.
It’s the foreigners sightseeing with high beams.
It’s in my dreams.
It’s the monsters that I conjure.
It’s the marijuana.
It’s the embarrassment, displacement.
It’s where I wander.
It’s my genre.
It’s Madonna’s videos.
It’s game shows.
It’s cheap liquor, blunts.
It’s bumper stickers with rainbows.
It’s angels, demons, gods.
It’s the white devils.
It’s the monitor, the soundman.
It’s the motherfucking mic levels.
It’s gas fumes, fast food, Tommy Hil, mommy’s pill.
Columbia House music club, designer drugs and rhyming thugs.
It’s Bloods, Crips, five, six.
It’s stick up kids.
It’s Christian conservative terrorists.
It’s porno flicks.
It’s the East Coast. No, it’s the West Coast.
It’s public schools.
It’s asbestos.
It’s mentholated.
It’s techno.
It’s sleep, life and death.
It’s speed, coke and meth.
It’s hay fever, pain relievers, oral sex and smoker’s breath.
It stretches for as far as the eye can see.
It’s reality, fuck it.
It’s everything but me.
On and on and on and on
The list goes on and on and on and on.
It’s in the air, in the water.
It’s in the meat.
It’s indirect, indiscrete, inconsistent, and incomplete.
It’s on the street, every city and everywhere you go.
In every man it’s the insanity, the fantasy, the casualties.
It’s the health care system.
It’s welfare victims.
It’s assault weapons.
It’s television religion and its false lessons.
It’s cops, pigs with badges guns and sticks.
It’s harassment and a complex you carry when you’re running shit.
It’s wondering if you get to eat.
It’s the heat.
It’s the winter , the weather.
It’s herpes, and it’s forever.
It’s the virus that takes the lives of the weak and the strong.
It’s the drama that keeps on between me and my seed’s mom.
It’s that need to speak long.
It’s my hunger for attention.
It’s the wack, who attack songs of redemption.
It’s prevention.
It’s the first solution.
It’s loosing the retribution.
It’s mental pollution, and public execution
It’s the nails that keep my hands and feet to these boards.
It’s the part time job that governs what you can afford.
It’s the fear.
It’s the fake.
It’s clear.
It can make time stop and leave you stranded in the year of the snake.
It’s the dollar, yen, pound, it’s all denomination
It’s hourly wages for your professional observations.
It’s on your face and it’s in your eyes.
It’s everything you be
But it ain’t me mother fucker; it ain’t me.
