From working at the bin
With her face upside down and her eyes down to the floor
Carrying on with her rants and torn words
Has me bend and coughing in
My coins
On ever having peace again
My cherry has grown sour and bitter
I’m tainted with yellow fever
Of the Tuesday grays
Cause my sky ain’t aiming for blue
It’s all red and blank
Tho I keep reloading the gun aiming for my head
Somehow I keep on missing
Can’t jinx what can’t be jinxed
The hand that I dealt with
Is cold and dry paint
Splashing on my money
Is the more that is getting swallowed
By the pen of printed paper
On the day that money was in my pocket
Wouldn’t be such an struggle to get
Have to give her affirmations just for her to face the day
Tho to her I sound genuine but I am tired
She likes the volume loud and her drinks cold filled with ice
Tho she takes spill from her drink