WORK LOCKER

Sitting in the throne right next to my work locker

I think I know just what to do just like a hurt doctor
I think I know just what to do just like I learned proper
Hit the stage
Burnt that shit and then returned awkward

Double rubberbanded up as the returns stock up
Read the spine, reshelved it neatly
Or brought to your office

I was 19 in this bitch with an impure process
Now I'm 23 tryna beat the world's gauntlet

Scratched serial off the pen
Now it's untraceable
But now I'm really worried that I be not relatable

Methodical Marvin
Harping on his state of home
But mostly just starving
Carving down his favorite bowl

Scarfing down dishes that I made with love and care
That was supposed to last the week
But how in the fuck would that be fair
Good eats are good eats
When kicking up with nappy hair
Inside your apartment by yourself
Instead of making up nasty stares

That follow me home
But only if I let 'em
I love therapy even when I feel it's a set up

Paranoia
Pair of coins tucked
In each of the letters
That I write in this calibur notebook
The bluer the better

Gooey-ish textures
That's dripping from the bic pen
Looking a lot like DNA that's floating from the pig's skin

And when yall catch it
It be feeling like a touchdown
Make me wanna scream at the top of my lungs
Like I'm BigWinn

Young LU learning the durability of his chin
Just so I know exactly when to get em' off me
Old trauma goblins playing dirty like Pig Pen
Put the chainsaw away you gotta kill em softly