Haters, haters, haters, haters.I don’t even have em, that’s what’s crazy.
Yet and still, home is where the hate is.
Ready to share my thoughts and ideas
Then I hear the critic asking
"Who you think you is?"
Can’t even form a freaking sentence
Without him applying the negative pressure.
Praying and meditating for ways out this prison.
Clawing out little by little like Shawshank
I see the warden every time I pass the mirror.
My time in this hell, my toughest critic is the one to thank.