I have a question for you, baby.
If you love me so much, why do the things you do?
You grasp me with lies, you slap me with pain,
always wake up wondering how I could still be sane.
Your screaming is unbearable, making my ears bleed,
how can you treat me so bad, the woman carrying your seed.
You always told me we would be together,
but all of this pain I can’t bare forever.
Wishing to die, I feel like it takes forever,
why does it have to be this way when we’re together?
I have a question for you, baby.
If you love me so much, why do the things you do?
You come home at all hours of the night,
staying up, worrying sick about you when I know your definitely alright.
My girls tell me to wake up and see the light.
Whenever I confront you about it we end up in a fight.
You’ve hit my eyes, impairing my sight,
making it hard for me to cry myself to sleep at night.
I have a question for you, baby.
If you love me so much, why do the things you do?
Counting the bruises, counting the days
when all of this would just fade away.
The rage in his voice-
I felt as if I had no choice.
I tried to break free,
but he needs me, you see
and if I don’t complain and do things right, maybe he’ll let me be.
Right? Wrong!
This is my melody to a sad song.
Eight months pregnant, thats what I thought, one more month on the dot.
The last time he hit me I didn’t make it..did my baby? I guess not.
- Butta Love, the provocative verbalist
