3000
You don't have to tell me you hate the things I do;
At the end of the day, I'll still be me;
As long as I stay strong willed behind the plots I construe;
Than in my mind I'll remain trapped and free;
Being me is more than being different;
For I have longed to be the same at times;
But in that dark hour I could only listen;
To the loudest bass of my life's rhymes;
This beat growing, emerging, erupting;
Telling me I am still here;
But if my path wanders, I'm surely unlucky;
For my conscience will now live in fear;
I live and die for myself only;
I'm selfishly selfless, though, at times;
Because when that dark hour strikes and I'm lonely;
I only have my inner rhyme.
