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A Gangster’s Prayer Lord, I don’t come to You clean— I come to You real. Blood on my hands, But pain in my heart still. Every morning I pray, Not for riches or fame, Just that I make it back home The same way I came. See, I walk out the door, And I kiss my kids' heads, Like it's the last time I'll see them Before I end up dead. Or locked in a cage, With no sun on my skin, Doing calendars of time For that same paper I spin. I ain't proud of this hustle— But pride don’t pay bills. And hunger don’t sleep When your fridge sits still. So I push poison, While praying for grace. My soul dying slowly But I keep a brave face. The money comes fast, But so does the heat. You lose sleep, lose friends— End up buried beneath. I got addicted to the lifestyle, The flash and the thrill. But whether you sell it or use it, The dope's out to kill. It gave me Jordans, gold chains, A name on the block... Then stripped me of family When them cell doors locked. Now my son don’t know me. My daughter’s grown cold. And my mama's voice cracks Every time she scolds. The dope game gives everything— Then it rips it away. Your soul, your bloodline, Your light of day. So God, If You hear me, And You still believe— Forgive this gangster Who just wants to leave. But until then, Keep my kids safe and warm. Protect them from this storm. Let them know their daddy was torn. Not evil, just trapped. Not heartless, just lost. Trying to survive— But now I know the cost. Amen. Would you like this turned in
A man in a formal black pinstripe suit and fedora stands with his hands clasped, gazing down, against a muted exterior background, conveying a serious and contemplative mood.
