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)