Get Used To Yourself VIII

I'll never fail when I speak
Pure goodness in my blood when I leak
From the heart on my sleeve
Therapeutic art that I bleed
This and God are all that I need
The voiceless follow my lead
Because of all the things that don't make sense
I'm not hard to believe
I know about suffering quietly
Between being myself and wanting love from society
I would drown in the darkness of my room silently
Don't drink or smoke
So no one to call friends and hang with
Others like me
Too busy among themselves on extra curricular occupations
So I'm left on the outside having 1-sided conversations
How do I sell my soul?
Suicidal contemplation
So how I found my way in
The darkness
If I had to define art
That's what art is
That was my light
If confidence exists nowhere else
It lies in what I write
Even if most of my work seems depressing
It's because of poetry without question
That I actually have aspirations
That I actually have some patience
For life despite my death requests to God some nights
A part of me says "No, you have to make it
So much you have to say
Your gift, that's the way"
So I've been using my art for the path I lay
In need of peace and happiness
Know I have to pray
Dreams to have a grave as a stage
Practice soul resuscitation at the page
Only reason I haven't made myself a goner yet
Is lack of bravery
But my life's unraveling will happen two ways
My dreams or death
Which one will come first
As I pray for the best
And pray for the worst
Some days feel like I'm blessed
Most days feel like I'm cursed
Still alive nonetheless
So I write when it hurts
Rhyming come naturally
Love my pain when it works
In my favor
Create classic poems
Get my money's worth
How much is this piece worth, I wonder
Then again I'd be devaluing this with a number
But this I'll say though
Worth enough for me to be signed to J. Cole