Don't you really hate it,
When you talk of your problems and someone says that it's nothing,
When they say that they've gone through worse;
Bitch I'm talking 'bout myself here, and it's all hell-like in my head.
All of 'em out there say it will pass on,
'Just hang in there and deal with it',
And that you shouldn't complain,
But shit, I'm telling you 'cause I thought I could really use some help.
One day you just explode,
When the army of backstabbers grows and grows;
When you're crushed and crumpled,
Powerless and overruled.
And those people still keep talking—
Talking all the rubbish they want to;
Deciphering all they can from what they've seen,
But never care about if you want to speak.
You just want to end it all,
Sometimes you think, screw it, just give up;
If this is life, I don't need it anymore,
I might better live as someone's ghost.
But, somehow, you carry on,
Because of course, you don't always come across the bad ones;
There are some generous ones,
Who, in painful times, offer to hold your hand, to give you strength.
Angels they are,
For you smile at their mere thoughts;
And recalling their words makes you glad,
Glad that they exist, glad that you're still fighting.
Just like how it's told,
The bad exists, and so does the good,
Both always coexist,
And no one is unfortunate enough to only cross paths with the judging lot.