They say that as one grows older one mellows, become more tolerant. Perhaps. Sometimes I think it is more a stripping off, a peeling away of irrelevancies. But somehwere in youth, as childhood is left behind, certain truths about ourselves become apparent, and once we recognise them, we must abide by them.
..and I thought how liking a boy was just the same as believing you wanted to know a secret - everything was better when you were denied and could feel tormented by curiousity or loneliness. But the moment of something happening was treacherous. It was just so tiring to have to worry about whether your face was peeling, or to have to laugh at stories that weren't funny.
Creativity connects me to my truest self and vulnerability. There is nothing more personally liberating, than reaching for my face and peeling off the social mask that hides my; shadow self, pain and weakness. When i produce from this place of truth, the results transform both creator and beholder.
Don't bother to argue anything on the Internet. And I mean, ANYTHING... The most innocuous, innocent, harmless, basic topics will be misconstrued by people trying to deconstruct things down to the sub-atomic level and entirely miss the point... Seriously. Keep peeling the onion and you get no onion.
Don't bother to argue anything on the Internet. And I mean, ANYTHING.... The most innocuous, innocent, harmless, basic topics will be misconstrued by people trying to deconstruct things down to the sub-atomic level and entirely miss the point.... Seriously. Keep peeling the onion and you get no onion.
Think binary. When matter meets antimatter, both vanish, into pure energy. But both existed; I mean, there was a condition we'll call "existence." Think of one and minus one. Together they add up to zero, nothing, nada, niente, right? Picture them together, then picture them separating-peeling apart. ... Now you have something, you have two somethings, where once you had nothing.
Until we let go of our mental images of who we are or who we should be, our vision remains clouded by expectation. But when we let go of everything, open ourselves to any truth, and see the world without fear or judgement, then we are finally able to begin the process of peeling off the shell of false identity that prevents our true self from growing and shining in to the world.
The troubles of the young are soon over; they leave no external mark. If you wound the tree in its youth the bark will quickly cover the gash; but when the tree is very old, peeling the bark off, and looking carefully, you will see the scar there still. All that is buried is not dead.
Feathers!" spluttered Sargatanas. "Feathers are for the birds, my boy. Flaking, peeling, scale-ridden wings, now that's what real beings wear. I'll tell you a secret." He said, and drew me closer. "The eternal pain at having known Paradise and lost it is priceless. I wouldn't swap it for anything.
Feathers! spluttered Sargatanas. Feathers are for the birds, my boy. Flaking, peeling, scale-ridden wings, now that's what real beings wear. I'll tell you a secret. He said, and drew me closer. The eternal pain at having known Paradise and lost it is priceless. I wouldn't swap it for anything.
You might want to sit in public squares and people watch for an hour in one place and a month in another. I can tell by the way you're peeling that grapefruit. You want to get lost. Somewhere where they have ordinary life you can join in. Slip right in there and have a bowl of soup in the clothes you have on now. Go hear a concert you read about stapled to a telephone pole. There are lots of places like that in the world.
Bare skin is the one and only right criterion for receiving water's gracious acceptance or any acceptance whatsoever from that element. But Pliny also seems to say something more: Stripping off not caution but the stale, crusty garments of preconception, peeling sensibly down to raw, new nakedness, is the only way to enter and be properly embraced by the world.
Everything has taken on a strange, distant quality - the sounds of running and shouting outside get warped and weird like they're being filtered through water, and Alex looks miles away. I start to think I might be dreaming, or about to pass out. And then I decide I'm definitely dreaming, because as I'm watching, Alex starts peeling his shirt off over his head.
Propose to an Englishman any principle, or any instrument, however admirable, and you will observe that the whole effort of the English mind is directed to find a difficulty, a defect, or an impossibility in it. If you speak to him of a machine for peeling a potato, he will pronounce it impossible: if you peel a potato with it before his eyes, he will declare it useless, because it will not slice a pineapple.
Tapping While Peeling, Back These Masks Stained With Stars... This Ashtrays My Heart, Colored In Filters Sucked Dry From The High, The Lipsticked and Famous, The Lovers The Haters, The Bent Or Those Who Live In The Cage... With Vision Sealed Tight Denying All Light... Left Only With Assumption From A Judge In Sleep State...
L V HALL
Forgiving practice is like peeling an onion, you have to do over and over again many times to achieve freedom... Each time we visualize the person in front of us and forgive, we peel off a layer of hatred from our soul and we keep doing the forgiveness until we can achieve true freedom! Forgive & let go!
I was just peeling some potatoes for dinner and they all looked like crisp white potatoes until I cut them in half. Every single one had a rotten, gray core. [. . .] I feel like the whole world is black, rotting, and evil. Even when it looks crisp on the outside, that's a lie, because you can't trust anything - on the inside it's nothing like mold. [. . .] So, see, nothing good is ever going to happen, and anyone who says it is, is lying to you.
Bit by bit, Dr. Driscoll helped me to peel away the layers of protection I had built up over the years. The process was not that unlike the peeling of an onion, which also makes us cry. It has been a painful journey, and I don't now when it will end, when I can say, 'OK, it's over.' Maybe never. Maybe sooner than I know. I recently told Dr. Driscoll that I feel the beginnings of feeling OK, that this is the right path.
Charles L. Bailey Jr.
Some think love can be measured by the amount of butterflies in their tummy. Others think love can be measured in bunches of flowers, or by using the words 'for ever.' But love can only truly be measured by actions. It can be a small thing, such as peeling an orange for a person you love because you know they don't like doing it.
The message that underlies healing is simple yet radical: We are already whole.... Underneath our fears and worries, unaffected by the many layers of our conditioning and actions, is a peaceful core. The work of healing is peeling away the barriers of fear that keep us unaware of our true nature of love, peace, and rich interconnection with the web of life. Healing is the rediscovery of who we are and who we have always been.
I am very fond of the modest manner of life of those solitary owners of remote villages, who in Little Russia are commonly called "old-fashioned," who are like tumbledown picturesque little houses, delightful in their simplicity and complete unlikeness to the new smooth buildings whose walls have not yet been discolored by the rain, whose roofs are not yet covered with green lichen, and whose porch does not display its bricks through the peeling stucco.
Concentrate on sharpening your memory and peeling your sensibility. Cut every page you write by at least one third. Stop constructing those piffling little similes of yours. Work out what it is you want to say. Then say it in the most direct and vigorous way you can. Eat meat. Drink blook. Give up your social life and don't think you can have friends. Rise in the quiet hours of the night and prick your fingertips and use the blood for ink; that will cure you of persiflage!
He could see the tall, peeling yellow building at the periphery of his range of vision. But something about it struck him as strange. A shimmer, an unsteadiness, as if the building faded forward into stability and then retreated into insubstantial uncertainty. An oscillation, each phase lasting a few seconds and then blurring off into its opposite, a fairly regular variability as if an organic pulsation underlay the structure. As if, he thought, it's alive.
Philip K. Dick
The philosophical underpinnings of my approach to acting are that there are universal human qualities, and that every character is actually available within each one of us, that if we tap down into that universal humanness, we can find whatever character it is that we need to play already there within ourselves, and it's just a matter of peeling apart the onion that is you and finding that character within you, because of this universal human quality.
No matter how hard she tried to maintain her calm and collected persona, she knew it was all a ruse. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hide. Hide from the world. Hide from her memories. Enter a shell and never leave. But hers would always be a broken shell, with all her cracks and holes exposed for the world to see. The veneer she had carefully painted to protect and hold herself together was peeling away.
Turn it off, ' she said, her voice cracking. 'It's still good music, ' Joe told her with an almost apologetic shrug. 'It's crap, ' she breathed, still totally taken aback by the music playing again. He shook his head. 'No, it's not crap!' he said patiently and started peeling out of his sweater, trying hard not to get his braced hand caught in the sleeve. He emerged, his hair a bit messy, and tossed the sweater back towards the sofa.
The farmhouse sat on a rise at the end of a long dirt road, in a clearing surrounded by fruit trees and ninety acres of pines. It was painted white, and peeling, and some former hippie tenant had painted a mandala on the wall just inside the door with fine-point Magic Marker. I painted over it, but it bled through, again and again. I finally left it there, a pale and pastel version of itself, hanging ghostlike in the hall.
Everything in New York is a photograph. All the things that are supposed to be dirty or rough or unrefined are the most beautiful things. Garbage cans at the ends of alleyways look like they've been up all night talking with each other. Doorways with peeling paint look like the wise lines around an old feller's eyes. I stop and stare but can't stay because men always think I'm selling something. Or worse, giving something away. I wish I could be invisible. Or at least I wish I didn't look like someone they want to look at. They stop being part of the picture, they get up from their chess game and come out of the frame at me, blocking my view.
The best part of a Mr. Goodbar is not the wrapper, is it? No, and the best part of a Coke is not the can. On those nights when you lie awake, either man or boy, wondering about yourself, peeling away one layer of oddness after another, you should remember and always be grateful that the woefully imperfect person that you are, with all your contradictions and unworthy desires, is not the best of you, any more than the wrapper is the best part of a Mr. Goodbar. -Odd Thomas - Odd Apocalypse by Dean Koonts pgs. 354-355 chapter 53
I am the woman at the water's edge, offering you oranges for the peeling, knife glistening in the sun. This is the scent and taste of my skin: citon and sweet. Touch me and your life will unfold before you, easily as this skirt billows then sinks, lapping against my legs, my toes filtering through the rivers silt. Following the current out to sea, I am the kind of woman who will come back to haunt your dreams, move through your humid nights the way honey swirls through a cup of hot tea
Art alone makes life possible "" this is how radically I should like to formulate it. I would say that without art man is inconceivable in physiological terms... I would say man does not consist only of chemical processes, but also of metaphysical occurrences. The provocateur of the chemical processes is located outside the world. Man is only truly alive when he realizes he is a creative, artistic being... Even the act of peeling a potato can be a work of art if it is a conscious act.
I'm not ill like that, " she groaned. He sat on her bed, peeling back the blanket. A servant entered, frowning at the mess on the floor, and shouted for help. "Then it what way?" 'I, uh... " Her face was so hot she thought it would melt onto the floor. Oh you idiot. "My monthly cycles finally came back!" His face suddenly matched hers and he stepped away, dragging his hand through his short hair. "I-if... Then I'll take my leave, " he stammered, and bowed. Celaena raised an eyebrow, and then, despite herself, smiled as he left the room as quick as his feet could go without running, tripping slightly in the doorway as he staggered into the rooms beyond.
Sarah J. Maas
Guys can smell desperation. It triggers an instinct in them to run far and fast so they aren't around when a woman starts peeling apart her heart. They know she'll ask for help in putting it back together the right way - intact and beating correctly - and they dread the thought of puzzling over layers that they can't understand, let alone rebuild. They'd rather just not get blood on their hands. But sharks are different. They smell the blood of desperation and circle in. They whisper into a girl's ear, "I'll make it better. I'll make you forget all about your pain." Sharks do this by eating your heart, but they never mention this beforehand. That is the thing about sharks.
Short of climbing aboard a time capsule and peeling back eight and one-half decades, James Cameron's magnificent Titanic is the closest any of us will get to walking the decks of the doomed ocean liner. Meticulous in detail, yet vast in scope and intent, Titanic is the kind of epic motion picture event that has become a rarity. You don't just watch Titanic , you experience it from the launch to the sinking, then on a journey two and one-half miles below the surface, into the cold, watery grave where Cameron has shot never-before seen documentary footage specifically for this movie.
Rockwood didn't have a movie theater or an IHOP or a strip mall. But it did have two churches, a ramshackle bar, and last (but certainly not least) Wacky Willie's Deluxe Goofy Golf, a barren landscape of wilted ferns and plastic flamingos with peeling paint. Wacky Willie had added the 'Deluxe' when finally ridding the thirteenth hole windmill of a stubborn family of bats after a great and terrible struggle that would forever be known as 'The Fearsome Bat War of Rockwood County' by Willie, but was usually referred to as 'That Time Willie Had to Get Rabies Shots' by everyone else.
A. Lee Martinez
POSITIVE VS NEGATIVE CAUSES ELECTRICAL CHARGE LIKE IT AT THE BAR LIKE IT I'M A LOVER AT LARGE EN GARDEN BEGGING YOUR PARDON HARDEN, SCORCHIN' ALWAYS RINGING THE BELLS I NEVER BARGE IN I'M EASY GREASY ROCKIN' CHICKS KEEP ME DIZZY I'M BUSY WITH SOCKS WITH TIZZY WE HAIL FROM T-DRIZZY IT'S K, CANADA I'M MANAGER I'M AMATEUR DAMAGE YOUR RAM WITH MY PLANET'S SUBLAMINAL STAMINA GO RED TO BLACK ROCK IT I'M GETTING DOWN ROCKING THE COLD SOUND JONI MITCHELL AND PEELING OUT BREAK IT DOWN I'M WIT IT I ADMIT IT I GOING TO GET IT I'M ABOUT TO HIT IT ASK IF I DID IT RISE THE DEPTHS HIT THE STEPS TOOK AWAY MY BREATH QUIET AS KEPT PLEASE RESPECT THE ARCHITECT WHEN I BLAST I'M NASTY I'M DOWN SO FASTY AND WITH MY MARIJUANA HOMIE'S SO EVERLASTING
Many of the people in this world that you will see and that you will meet, are the versions of themselves that have come about as a result of the things that have happened to them in life. When people laugh at you, you develop a layer of skin for that and when you lose people, you develop a different layer of skin for that and when you are hurt during the times you are vulnerable, there is another special layer of skin for that; so on and so forth. We become covered in layers of different kinds of skin that we never asked to have and that we would never want to have! But there we are, underneath all of that; we walk around and we don't see ourselves, we don't see each other, we can hardly remember anything about who we are! It takes someone to look through all of that skin, to remember yourself on behalf of you. A person can give you the set of eyes that were used to view the real you, in some distant past, in some different lifetime! Then when you see them looking at you like that, you remember who you are and that's when the layers of unwanted skin begin to peel and through that peeling you become a newborn.
C. JoyBell C.
Gabe watched, holding his breath as the figure slowly turned. The body moved in an almost unnatural way as it shifted and crawled slowly on all fours across the floor. When the candlelight at last fell on the figure, Gabe could make out the auburn hair of his beloved Sophie. Her hair was matted, greasy, and hung in her face. Gabe saw her shoulders were hollow looking and her skin was almost glowing white. Gabe caught sight of Sophie's fingers, her knuckles were bloody, and her nails cracked and peeling. Instinctively, Gabe fell to his knees and crawled to Sophie. Without even giving it a thought, he grabbed her hands and pulled them closer to the light.
With battle-weary arms, Sheridan slugged his way across the luminous waves sending light-filled droplets splashing into the air like Fourth of July sparklers. Stumbling onto the lake's rocky banks, he clawed desperately at the animal skin suit, yanking at the fastenings and peeling back the suffocating shroud in a fitful temper tantrum. He collapsed onto the glitter washed shore, his chest heaving, his forehead pulsing with pumped up veins. 'That was a nightmare!' Sheridan rasped between gulps of air. 'Like some sort of freaked-out acid trip!' 'All suffering comes bearing a gift. Every pain is a portal. You must look at the hand of your suffering to see the gift it offers and peer into your pain to see where it may lead.' Kunchen said calmly.
I went to a tattoo parlor and had YES written onto the palm of my left hand, and NO onto my right palm, what can I say, it hasn't made my life wonderful, its made life possible, when I rub my hands against each other in the middle of winter I am warming myself with the friction of YES and NO, when I clap my hands I am showing my appreciation through the uniting and parting of YES and NO, I signify "book" by peeling open my hands, every book, for me, is the balance of YES and NO, even this one, my last one, especially this one. Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn't the world, it wasn't the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don't know, but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.
Jonathan Safran Foer
That's my little piece of heaven. Go ahead." Ciro followed Remo through the open door to a small enclosed garden. Terra-cotta pots positioned along the top of the stone wall spilled over with red geraniums and orange impatiens. An elm tree with a wide trunk and deep roots filled the center of the garden. Its green leaves and thick branches reached past the roof of Remo's building, creating a canopy over the garden. There was a small white marble birdbath, gray with soot, flanked by two deep wicker armchairs. Remo fished a cigarette out of his pocket, offering another to Ciro as both men took a seat. "This is where I come to think." "Va bene, " Ciro said as he looked up into the tree. He remembered the thousands of trees that blanketed the Alps; here on Mulberry Street, one tree with peeling gray bark and holes in its leaves was cause for celebration.
I saw to the south a man walking. He was breaking ground in perfect silence. He wore a harness and pulled a plow. His feet trod his figure's blue shadow, and the plow cut a long blue shadow in the field. He turned back as if to check the furrow, or as if he heard a call. Again I saw another man on the plain to the north. This man walked slowly with a spade, and turned the green ground under. Then before me in the near distance I saw the earth itself walking, the earth walking dark and aerated as it always does in every season, peeling the light back: The earth was plowing the men under, and the space, and the plow. No one sees us go under. No one sees generations churn, or civilizations. The green fields grow up forgetting. Ours is a planet sown in beings. Our generations overlap like shingles. We don't fall in rows like hay, but we fall. Once we get here, we spend forever on the globe, most of it tucked under. While we breathe, we open time like a path in the grass. We open time as a boat's stem slits the crest of the present.
Peeling an Orange Between you and a bowl of oranges I lie nude Reading The World's Illusion through my tears. You reach across me hungry for global fruit, Your bare arm hard, furry and warm on my belly. Your fingers pry the skin of a naval orange Releasing tiny explosions of spicy oil. You place peeled disks of gold in a bizarre pattern On my white body. Rearranging, you bend and bite The disks to release further their eager scent. I say 'Stop, you're tickling, ' my eyes still on the page. Aromas of groves arise. Through green leaves Glow the lofty snows. Through red lips Your white teeth close on a translucent segment. Your face over my face eclipses The World's Illusion. Pulp and juice pass into my mouth from your mouth. We laugh against each other's lips. I hold my book Behind your head, still reading, still weeping a little. You say 'Read on, I'm just an illusion, ' rolling Over upon me soothingly, gently unmoving, Smiling greenly through long lashes. And soon I say 'Don't stop. Don't disillusion me.' Snows melt. The mountain silvers into many a stream. The oranges are golden worlds in a dark dream.
The Mercy The ship that took my mother to Ellis Island eighty-three years ago was named "The Mercy." She remembers trying to eat a banana without first peeling it and seeing her first orange in the hands of a young Scot, a seaman who gave her a bite and wiped her mouth for her with a red bandana and taught her the word, "orange, " saying it patiently over and over. A long autumn voyage, the days darkening with the black waters calming as night came on, then nothing as far as her eyes could see and space without limit rushing off to the corners of creation. She prayed in Russian and Yiddish to find her family in New York, prayers unheard or misunderstood or perhaps ignored by all the powers that swept the waves of darkness before she woke, that kept "The Mercy" afloat while smallpox raged among the passengers and crew until the dead were buried at sea with strange prayers in a tongue she could not fathom. "The Mercy, " I read on the yellowing pages of a book I located in a windowless room of the library on 42nd Street, sat thirty-one days offshore in quarantine before the passengers disembarked. There a story ends. Other ships arrived, "Tancred" out of Glasgow, "The Neptune" registered as Danish, "Umberto IV, " the list goes on for pages, November gives way to winter, the sea pounds this alien shore. Italian miners from Piemonte dig under towns in western Pennsylvania only to rediscover the same nightmare they left at home. A nine-year-old girl travels all night by train with one suitcase and an orange. She learns that mercy is something you can eat again and again while the juice spills over your chin, you can wipe it away with the back of your hands and you can never get enough.
THERE'S A BURNING DESIRE BURNING IN MY BRAIN, NO TIME FOR DENYING I WANNA LET IT OUT BUT YOU WOULD SAY I'M A LIAR I AIN'T GIVE A DAMN I'MA SPIT WHAT'S LEFT ON MY MIND THERE ARE MANY THINGS UNTOLD I NEED TO GET OFF MY CHEST I DESIRE TO BE THE KING OR A PRESIDENT OR I CAN BE THAT LITTLE SPARK IN YOUR BRAIN THAT MAKES YOU MEDITATE DESIRE TO BE THE ONE GREAT PILLAR AN UNSHAKEABLE MAN THAT CAN'T BE BROUGHT DOWN WHEN YOU BEAT HIM DESIRE TO BE THE POSITIVE OR I CAN BE THE NEGATIVE WISH I CAN BE THE BEST RAPPER IN THE WORLD, AFFIRMATIVE! OR I CAN BE THE LAST MAN STANDING YOU DIGGING IT? THEN I CAN BE SO PROUD TO PROVE THAT YOU CAN NEVER BEAT ME I WISH THAT I COULD BE THE FUTURE NE-NE-NEVER BE THE PAST DESIRE TO BE THE GREATEST STAR THAT STANDS EVERLASTING NICE THOUGHTS COMING OUTTA MY MIND THEY CAN'T STOP IT COS THAT'S WHAT'S BURNING IN MY SOUL... RHYMING AND DROPPING THE HIT AND ERRYBODY'S FEELING ME RAPPING AND DROPPING THE CEILINGS DOWN TO THE GROUND YOU DIGGING IT? PEELING, KILLING THE WHOLE GAME AIN'T GIVE SHIT OF IF SPEAKING LIKE, 'MA-PA-PA-PA-MA-MA' BUT THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE I MAKE SENSE OUT OF NONSENSE AND NOW THEY CALLING ME THE GREAT NIGGA WITH CONCEPT ME FLOW IS FANTASTIC ME BOY IS INCREDIBLE HATERS ARE SAYING, "DAMN! MEHN, UNBELIEVABLE" I KEEP ON KILLING THE BEAT BETTER THAN A GWANDER MAN I FLOW SO STEADY MEHN, IT'S JUST COMING OUTTA MY BRAIN NEVER SCARED OF THE ENEMY COS I'M TOO DEADLY WANNA HEAR MY VOICE? YOU BETTER PLAY IT AGAIN AND AGAIN GREATEST IN THE WHOLE WORLD BEST IN NIGERIA WANNA KNOW ME? YOU BETTER CHECK ON WIKIPEDIA YEAH, MY WHOLE TRACKS ARE GETTING PLAYED ON THE MEDIA BEST FLOWS FROM THE BETTER GUY WHO LIVE A LIFE OF A HUSTLER BUT HEART OF A KING GOT THE MIND STATE OF A WINNER BUT I'M STRUGGLING HUSTLING HARD STRUGGLE ERRYDAY LIKE A PET IT'S NOT A MOVIE THAT YOU CAN KNOW IF YOU'VE GOTTEN THERE YET IT IS REALITY I PLAY THE WHOLE ROLE AND NOW I'M GETTING IT KEEP MY HEAD STEADY ERRYDAY AND NEVER BENDING IT MY IDENTITY IS GOING FAR AND I CAN SEE THE LIGHT THE ONE BROKE NIGGA Y'ALL THOUGHT WOULD NEVER GET IT RIGHT NOW I'M GETTING BIGGER AND ERRONE'S LOOKING FOR ME "E.M.S, E.M.S!" ERRYBODY'S CALLING ME THE GOODY GOODY'S COMING IN SO YOU CAN NEVER MURDER ME I'MA HUSTLE HARD TILL THE DEATH HOPE YOU DIGGING ME? YEAH, IT'S JUST A MATTER OF TIME, I'MA GET IT RIGHT YEAH, I'MA TAKE THE BEST SHOT AND I'MA HIT THE SPOT AND I'MA BE THE HEADLINE ON YOUR LIPS AND ERRDAY YOU GONNA SIT AND TALK ABOUT THE NEW GIST LIKE; I GIVE YOU MUCH RESPECT BY CALLING YOU YES MA BUT ALL YOU GAVE ME WAS JUST SHOWING NO REMORSE MA I JOINED ILLUMINATI AND CAME OUT WITH FIRST-CLASS MA NOW THE ONES I CALL THE BEST ARE CALLING ME THE GREATEST MA A NEW ERA HAS RISEN WITH A BRAND NEW PRISON NEVER ASK WHY I ACCEPTED I GOT MY REASONS OTHER RAPPERS FALLING DOWN AND I'M JUST WATCHING, STARING YOU CAN CALL IT WHATEVER YOU LIKE, I'M HEARING IT'S THE RAP COMMUNITY TIME WE GOT PHYSIQUE BREAKING IT DOWN AND ALL THAT'S LEFT IS JUST PIECES MANY WANNA LEAVE BUT WE GRAB 'EM BUY THE PENIS THEY WANNA SCREAM A NAME BUT ALL THEY KNOW IS JUST, "JESUS!" FREE OFFERS ALWAYS COME WITH A PRICE TAG, RIGHT? MINE CAME WITH A FATE THAT CAN NEVER SLACK GOD LOVES THE POOR BUT HELPS THE RICH I AIN'T STANDING HERE TRYNA PREACH I'M JUST HERE TO TELL YOU THE FACT BELIEVE IT OR NOT THE WHOLE SHIT CRAP AIN'T SO HARDER THAN I THOUGHT I STRUGGLE HARD TO BRING THE SEXY LADIES OUT OF THE GROUND, MEHN IT'S UNLIKE UNLEASHING HELL ON EARTH WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN THE CEREMONY BEGINS I SAID IT LOUD AND NOW YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS SO YOU BETTER KEEP YOUR DISTANCE AND BETTER KEEP SHUT IF YOU TALK WITHOUT THE POWER MEHN, YOU'LL GET SHOT BAM! BAM!! BAM!!! BAM!!!! WE GOT YOUR BLOOD IN A CUP AND YOUR EYEBALLS GONE NOW TELL ME WHAT YOU SEE NOW NIGGA? COME ON, NOW MAKE A SOUND HAHA, AIGHT WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN THE CEREMONY BEGINS LOTS OF TEARS AND LOTS OF BLOOD SHED COME WITH IT AND LOTS OF VARIETIES THAT YOU CAN NEVER EAT BUT IT'S A DINNER WITH THE QUEEN SO GET USED TO IT. I GOT ENTHRONED BY A PRETTY LADY IT'S AMAZING! MY HANDS ARE LIFTED HIGH I KEEP PRAISING HALLELUJAH, HALLELUJAH, WHAT THE HELL! HAHA, NIGGAS JUST DON'T CARE GET USED TO THE LIFE THAT I'M LIVING I KEEP ON STANDING TALL YEAH, I'M BREATHING THEY ALL RESPECT EVERY WORD THAT I SAY WITHOUT KNOWING THE SOURCE YOU BRING DOWN A MAN AND BE THE MAN