I Shouldn'T Be

I've friends who sell drugs, and they are driving fast cars. Friends who are into money heists and they have mansions and fleets of super Cars, I've a cousin smuggling diamond and gold, and he is flying all over the world While I am stuck in my foul four walled iron sheet shunt shack Writing stupid poems most of which I tear in rage They make me sad and are too personal, making me feel so small,and foolish Trying to stay clean from all the dirty I see and believing in manners, ubuntu and character, Obsessed with personality and etiquette Beautiful, look they even rhyme, but always empty like a dream That do not bring food on the table Nor respect but make me a doormat,a push over, and not a lover Now girls mock me saying l look nerdy but definitely not sexy Sometimes I look at myself on the mirror and Surely I look thin and weak and obviously poor I must start going to the gym, I am too skinny, small and slim Look I've been praying since i learnt the word amen But this prayer thing is all a joke in vain Now I don't believe in prayer anymore Ain't feeling like talking to myself no more 'coz l feel empty each time i take to my knees, Cursing in my solo nights where the bastard is god Where the hell are the angels,and famed lovely lord If ever, wherever, whoever, whatever they are,they must be high on morphine and dreaming in heavenly euphoria And my prayers seem to be scratching their itching arses into a deeper slumber no, sweet sweet sweet slumber actually Wait,I was talking about praying.. right, praying for a better life and a good wife, What tha hell, a good wife! My prayers must really be a tempt on God At this age, in this world, I must be mad These filthy creatures all want cologne, clean wheels and money And they will tell you you are not a real man Because you can't afford her some fake hairs and fake nails and some presents to post on Facebook and fast foods as if they can't cook And while bastards with dough are leaving their wives For slay queens and hoes and slick dingy girls with fake boobs I am day dreaming of getting married I know I am old and stupid I should quit being a budding bard and focus on my life Not my future wife With all this pain and poverty written on my rough skin, and my 2 dollar shoes, I must be magging drunkards in the streets or burgeoning a filthy rich white collar thief in his home or pointing a revolver on a doll looking glassed bank teller Not writing stupid poems nobody reads