The Epoch

These hurtful bitches got me crying,
Trapped in a labyrinth of their confusion and conniving,
Cul de sac here, cul de sac there- oh, am I better off dying?
A nigga might as well throw his hands up (hip-hop) and stop trying.
Why even write these fucking poems?
That idyllic shit is stone- in the dirt, or on the walls- of the cave of a hollowed heart, torn a part by a fleeting paramour

Yeah, yeah- I know, I sound bitter
What you don't know is that your man is a thirsty nigga,
Fucked Trina, Tay and that white bitch down the hall that recommended your babysitter-
And he's trying to fuck her too,
Can't say I necessarily disagree with the nigga,...