How to cope with the eternal pressure of life.

I inhale a smoke, a temporary pleasure and vice.

I work hard and I have been for years.

I broke myself down, and I have lapped my peers.

Still I’m stoked, because I hear of competition out there.

I see in prose, how they write a story of perfection.

But see I’m black, facing countless years of oppression, following stages of correction.

A father figure missing, I inhale the most to ultimately outlast this prison —

Of aesthetic depth, transforming into perfect discipline.

Thus, I raise a toast, in celebration of my own supervision.