Nijat Masimov — Faridam

When I die, fuck it, I wanna go to hell,
'Cause I'm a piece of shit that ain't hard to fucking tell.
It don't make sense going to heaven with the goody-goodies dressed in white; I like black Tims and black hoodies.
Gotta probably have me on some real strict shit: no sleeping all day,
No getting my dick licked.
Hanging with the goody-goodies lounging in paradise,
Fuck that shit.
I wanted to gun to shoot dice for all my life; I've been considered as the worst.
Lying to my mother, even stealing out her purse.
Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion,
And now my mother wish she got a fucking abortion.
But she don't even love me like she did when I was younger,
Sucking on her chest just to stop my fucking hunger.
I wonder if I died, would tears come to her eyes?
Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies.
My baby mother's 8 months, her little sister's 2,
Who's to blame for both of them?
I swear to God I wanna just slip my wrists in this bullshit,
Throw the bag over to my head, threaten to pull shit,
And squeeze until the bed's completely wrecked.
I'm glad I'm dead; I want this fucking bootlehead.
The stress is building up, I can't,
I can't believe suicide's on my fucking mind.
I wanna leave,
I swear to God it feels like death is fucking calling me,
But nah, you wouldn't understand.
You see, it's kinda like Detective, the Pookie,
And New Jack, except when I grow older,
It ain't no coming back.
Should I die on the train track like Raymond on Beach Street,
People at the funeral fronting like they miss me?
My baby mama kissed me,
But she glad I'm gone; she know me and her sister had something going on.
I reached my peak, I can't speak.
Call my nigga Cheek, tell him that my will is weak.
I'm sick of niggas lying, I'm sick of bitches talking.
Matter of fact, I'm sick of talking.
Yeah.
Uh.
Alright, prophet, you gotta tell me like, I gotta, uh.