I see dead people.
Men walking into offices to sit in coffins.
People handed death certificates disguised as a salaries
My peers working 9–5 earning nowhere near enough to survive
So it's far from ironic that my bredrin said me
That at nights after work she sleeps like a corpse
Sometimes it feels like my city is a graveyard
Sometimes I feel like the ghost whisperer
Sometimes I feel I'm just watching
Re-runs of the Michael Jackson Thriller video
Because everybody is dancing and singing like they are alive
But it doesn't take a genius to see
That they are rotting on the inside
It's easy to say they gave up on life
Because if your just a victim of a system that's pulling the trigger
Is it still suicide?
So early in our lives were forced into
Uniforms which strip us of our identity
Stand in firing lines outside classrooms
Designed to kill everything unique about us
They did say that good die young
Abraham is only man I ever knew who was willing to stand
At the altar and sacrifice his happiness for someone else
And even he hesitated
Even God agreed that it wasn't worth it
Let me ask you a question
Have you ever played spot the difference between living and existing
What does unhappiness taste like
And do you try and brush it out your
Mouth every night before you go to sleep
And every morning before you head out Monday to Friday
And does it leave a bitter taste in your mouth on Sunday evenings
Sometimes making that bread can be a recipe for disaster
When was the last time you fed your soul
And didn't your parents teach you to always finish your plate
I think we can all agree that slavery is
Still alive, and we are just concealing it
Because maybe it's easier to admit to defeat
The truth were afraid to admit to ourselves
So instead we carry on digging our own graves
Chasing for promotions we don't
Really want to hang around necks like medals
But instead they hang around our necks
Like nooses attached to glass ceilings
And most don't even have the courage to jump
So instead remain on an office chair in purgatory
Not living or dying, just surviving.
Just surviving
Just getting-bying
I sit at the edge of this cemetery using my words like flowers
To mourn the ones we have lost.
But sometimes I feel like flowers aren't enough
Or is it that there are just too many graves.