random old poem:

designer bags filled with designer clothes.
grind, eat, sleep, shop, all a hustlher knows.
kinda hard to fight back from materialistic blows,
so I give in, now i'm laced from my head to my toes.

coach on my wrist, man.
iced out wristbands.
louis V earrings.
gold rings on my fist, man.

all the latest kicks, imma sneak freak.
niggas see my cinematic life, satisfied with the sneak peak.
got the strength of lavish labels but im still weak.
no love of my own, no relationship, love life still bleak.

money can't buy happiness...explains why I'm still sad.
if money makes one envious, I see why these hoes mad.
but little do they know despite my kicks and my ill swag,
insecurity's the reason I still brag.

cuz happiness is overpowered by the birken bags.
and fresh mike's has replaced all of the love i've had.
now im heartless on the kanye tip,
only love I got is my love for fresh threads and dope kicks.

so at night, I sleep with my clothes by my side.
my wardrobe is what keeps me warm through the night.
my vanity's what keeps me from fashion insanity.
my money's what keeps all these broke broads mad at me.
damn.

funny how you could have everything, but be empty and all.
how you on top of the world but still feel so small?
got enough steez to bottle it up and sell it to wack kids.
but the only question people pop at you is "paper or plastic"?

I got no love, but I got cash.
got no companionship, but I pop tags.
got nobody to really love me cuz I love my wealth
and every night I pray that I could grow to love myself...