So guys 

It’s Pride Month 

And I’m really angry 

Over Nothing in Particular 

So this is what was brain was talking to me about today 

 

I was born to be a woman so you know I’m one to spill blood 

If you don’t piss me off then I won’t feel the urge to kill ya 

This is not a request, no, baby, this is an order 

I told you to speak kindly. I meant it. Be gentle. 

All the stuff I hear these days got boys and girls, inclusive 

But it’s more than just the boys and girls make up humans, us people 

I can’t speak for no god but a mother’s love is equal 

When did it become our job to live by fighting evils 

I don’t even know where I’m going with this 

I’m just pissed 

And writing as it comes to me in pieces 

Someone has a problem 

With the way I rhyme so 

Here, I’ll give you Jesus 

[Sigh] 

No, really, it’s been on my mind all day 

Because I’m a nerd, and words are my forte 

They tell you rhyming is when the last vowel and coda match 

So when I put two things together, my sisters don’t like that 

So let me ask you, in you textbook, what rhymes with sewing 

Netting? Fishing? Sliding? 

Look, it’s bothering you, they’re not rhyming 

I study sounds, so stop talking over me and 

Realize sewing 

Rhymes better with lonesome 

And I’m a woman 

So I would know that 

A mother’s love is equal 

But she’s only her husband’s shadow 

I’m sad today 

I’m bleeding 

Everything hurts 

I’m needy 

Bodies are the worst 

And I’m fucking overheating 

I don’t even know what I’m mad about 

It’s Pride Month, you demons 

Can’t we all just love each other 

I told you to speak kindly. I mean it. 

 

Wait, I know what I’m pissed about 

I can’t record one fucking memo 

Without bro walking by like the fucking devil 

He’s so loud, he’s so heavy 

He reminds me of myself 

I just want enough money 

To get out of this fucking house? 

I’m a musician for love’s sake 

I need quiet. I need silence 

I need the ice cream trucks  

To shut the fuck up 

And to not feel guilty when I think the same of the ambulance 

Who the fuck thought New York City 

Was a good place to make music 

The rent is high, the pay is shitty 

Do you only like art if trauma induced it? (Is it pity?) 

Do you know the things I write? 

Do you know what my life is like 

I can’t write music anymore 

It’s just poetry at this point 

That nobody cares about 

I can write whatever crap I want and no one’ll know (Imagine!) 

Why bother recording 

Why fight with my stage fright 

No one can hear me when I say to be kind 

Or if I say that I spill blood 

It don’t make a diff’rence 

I hate this part of me, it needs so much attention 

And I don’t even like writing rap songs