Just a way

There are these people that write rhymes on pieces of paper,
With black pens estranged by anger,
Playing the victim as if they're the stranger,
And all these tears they cry,
In all these fears they lie,
Scared of being insecure,
Scared of being hated,
Invaded,
Thinking if they don't write they will never make it,
most of them will,
none of them kill.
I've cut a man on his wrist,
Fuck a plan i am pissed,
Blank hearted no black beard not retarded.
Not cold hearted but past it.