My lungs are full of smoke I’m starting to choke I think I need a smoke break see, a lot of us Believers are under the influence under the influence of everything less than the most high.
Full of gas like hot air balloons and just as empty and useless when they pop.
See gas Puffs you up but it doesn’t fill you, it lifts your head in the clouds only to watch you burst before you ever reach the stars.
 See my veins are full of coke no Cola
My brain dope, if the eyes are the windows to the soul what happens when your eyes shut, when baggage make your eyes slope When sin makes your spirit croak.
When venom make your soul smoke, when recreation becomes addiction and chains you to destructive habitats that temporary separate you from you,  only to bring you back to a seat of condemnation.
Fetal position Fridays are a dime a dozen you sit caged on the corners of dark rooms your head tucked under two cowardly arms, as your knees shakes hands, suicidal thoughts are plastered on the wall like street art.
You cry out to God but lies convince you that he don’t hear you, you try to scream but weariness sanctifies your bones like old age.
Times running out as you reach for the codeine the father reaches out for your attention but it’s divided will selfishness give you six ft of deep sleep, or will you finally hear the words you’ve been running from, hey son, I love you.
– Ibrahima Yansane