I'm tired of people claiming that when
one door opens, another is sure to close.
So I sit in the hallway and watch the
clocks attached to their wandering souls.
Another day passes with stagnant music blarring behind wood,
it's understood we've got no homes left deaf to the hood.
I took a fresh breath and then stood...
with a depth kept inside my chest, cacthing a theft's goods.
This is the best of "I could" as I sat back, max relaxin'
on the track and spat mad facts compacted to a hook.
Lets chat over a flat base-line and taste aged wine
taken by the maker of abstract space and time.
Rumor has it I got this knowledge from the grape-vine
outside honest galaxies...actually, I lied, I'm tired of rhymes
used to promote confused shows like kids don't know
how to shoot a gat, and attack wack cats that
act like fast magic graduates, saluting attractive hits
quick to be retracted when the contract stacks it's chips.
Cash in your stash for some handles before your
16 year old bars trap you to rap, and your grabbing bags
strapped with minimum wage like it's an interim basis
education; taking out the trash in a blank face waiter's oasis.
You wouldn't last a dime sack if you flap your gums son
cause emcees breeze through tongues piercingly and tattoos
of your crew with ink written in snake bitten ferocity.
It tears me up to be pessimistic but simplistic linguistics
dare to be optimistic when too many heads are dead to
realistic artistic ability, faking grateful sentiments said
when your sending me engery and a mix tape CD
to R.I.P. with no lettering; you better bring talent valuable
to the game or trade your V.I.P. room enthusiasm and
exuberant vigilantism shit to someone who can stand it.
I'll rant and rave over open graves for their name-sake.
I'm tired of people claiming that when
one door closes, another is sure to open.
So I sit in the hallway and mock the
clocks attached to roaming souls still hoping...
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