The Comments

Empty on the inside Washed up, spun out Baby, you got nothing to hide Getting paid to trying to graduate to the next grade Make it out the nation, where my scene at? My imagination, where you been at? Why am I always scared – scared about the future? Media ain't something I could ever get used to Made a mess, won't confess, don't wanna hear it out We all yelling so loud about like how They all acting so damn happy right now Who am I to say what these people pay? Quit acting like you know it all Why you always asking Like the color of my skin changes everything drastic? Money made, catching shade, got you bent over ass-kissing You won't even listen Pull up next to me, so that I can see You think they're made of plastic Bring them home Bring them home Bring them home I'm telling you my country won't Recognize the killing that it's built on Don't want the weather with the guilt storm Let them just get married If they want to get married Let them hit the altar in your white dress Who are you to say what these people pay? It's always been a whole lot more than you I really hope my friends' dreams do come true Quit acting like you know it all