Berlin

I grew up on bad dreams, a bad seed that's bonafied,
Chosen lies I speak, cause the leaks in the fortified.
Born to die so I live life like its my last strike.
First to pass but last to finish,
How do you like that math?
I'm the lab rat that back tracked the maze to the entrance.
But when I hit the floor they chopped my tale off in an instant.
Without a story to tell I dwell on my patellas.
Without a glass slipper for all these Cinderellas,
The problems umbrellas to grow bigger like Cochella.
The accapellas develop and rhetoric gets better.
Pay attention to my words and listen to the letter,
The clever will always be misunderstood;
This artist will never be any good,
That's the point, oil the joints
Just to break the pencil at the point.
Take the simple to the apex and let them fall.
See if they can learn to fly within these broken walls.