Sometimes I feel like life's just a rainy day, Writhing while writing and hiding behind word play. Women's pain peels my soul with zeal too real to feel, Between the Devil and Fate, it's like we're the third wheel.

Like we're in a room too small to stand or sit, 'Till we're sick of subliminal psychological fits. Feels like we're bleeding our soul's pain into rhymes, Watching it seep into verses every single time.

But then we break down these shackling walls, Blink the sun away as the bricks start to fall. We're going to keep screaming 'till we have half a lung, 'Till our poem's done, and our song is sung.

If you stroke fire don't expect not to sweat, We're not going to stop until we make you regret. Our lips drip blades and flip snares to rip you, The scary part about this horror story is that it is true.