Tha Story Pt.2 He Became — He became the man of the house when he was only eight years old Trying to feel shoes in his size four that weren't his own Because dad left the scene like the director told him to take five, now Drips of misunderstood tears come from his eyes, so much, that if he could plant his life It will sprout like rain flowers blossoming through the night You see, this boy's story was like the first of the month when the checks don't come Or like a slave to a life, which was his own, being beat by no father figure whips Being hung by family hands he couldn't grip He asks himself, with his face buried into cotton pillows While leaving puddles of questions on the carpet, so every step you take You hear screams of frustration, his emotions playing like strings of sad sympathy This journey called struggle walks with him during the day, sleeps with him at night Living in a home with one brother, one sister, one mothers pray, and fathers echoing Footsteps leaving through the back wooden door Questions rooms in his head, what is this life, that takes me by the hands Dragging me through concrete jungles That's filling my mind as water leaks through ceilings into buckets With thoughts that "instead of solving math problems and writing history reports My life was like loose change at cash registers, always coming up short" No footsteps to follow, only drowning in my sorrow Never knew if I ever get the chance to meet the sun and the moon until tomorrow Being raised by colorless pain Trying to paint my life with question mark paint brushes Never seen a perfect picture, only my stroke-less answers I'm speaking of being a man at the age of twelve, growing up around Nothing but dirt rolling, police patrolling Didn't have time for friends, they were too busy with hands behind backs, facing about ten And now I'm left stuck with these poverty scares Trying to heal wounds with these white pages and blue lines, and a pen that tells the story