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.