Looking for the truth, walking down the street, looking up, looking down, finding my own beat The streets are never clean No way to make them green. You go under the table Just to make it in on the scene I tried to pull and push Until my pockets flush Doing trick after trick I think I’m about to trip Back to year nine When I could never sit No choice, but to quit the lit And turn my skills to spit Then I hit year 10 Picking up a pen again Fight of flight, kicks in I’ll win, but don’t know when Finally understanding, decided to change my name Let’s go of the shame and blame My brain is not the same