VERSE Set em up, knock em down, pick em up. Destined to repeat this motherfucking cycle. There’s a lesson in all this tedium. And, experience be the weapon. But, a plastic spoon to a katana, got me second guessing. It’s hard to keep the faith when I see people with their vision boards, and half the shit on them remains unfulfilled premonitions… or wishes waiting for a shooting star that never comes. Dreaming shit til it exists makes the imagination numb. Like, I gotta live a lie that’s more fulfilling than my truth. Type of shit that gave me multiple complexes as a youth My body houses fossils masquerading as a soul. Paleontologist with microphones. Digging is all I know. Oh… damn… That would explain the dirt beneath my fingernails. Yet, the soul from all this ugly ain’t for sale. And, my regrets are the most precious shit in my possession. It’s likely how I might die, it’s death by a million feathers. It’s written on my ledger. I’ll learn the love the shambles… Learn to love the smoke from burnt bridges til it cancels the blue of the sky with a black like my skin… More definitive, akin to easy contrast. Ever since I poured bleach on my skin when I was 9, thought it’d dye my pigment white as the flags waved facing my depression. A surrender to the mirror. Still looking for God in the apathy colored brushstrokes of a sky painted ceiling. Feeling…. that’s the shit I’m always chasing… Roll my eyes when niggas ramble about vibes, sorry, I might be mistaken. But I don’t subscribe to your moods or your vibes. I’m alive, can’t deify my fucking doom. So, fuck the scrutiny, and fuck the noise unless I can sample it. Yeah, the grass is greener. With these Chucks, tho? I’ll trample it. Vandal to my vices, vanish back into my candlelit sanctum where I’m lamping, and scribbling my next manuscript. OUTRO X2 Every morning, wake up with my fingers numb… Wiggle them to pump the blood in them, what can be done… when the feeling fades, and it’s just a memory. Caress epiphany until it’s real. Destiny. I speak, listen, and live in a tongue that ain’t native. Language is liquid, but my cup remains vacant. Can’t replace it. (And I Feel Alone)