Sunday, June 20, 2010

Prison Bars

I spit prison bars,
got you locked up cuz you fucked up.
Graspin the steel, tryna see whos on the other side
it's just a mirror, looking at yo own mind.
Brought this upon yourself, no belt,
you couldn't hold your own, your own pants fell.
Metaphor for your dignity incase you couldn't recognize,
you're lyrically irrelevant, so stop feeding your self lies.
you can't write, you can't freestyle.
Oh so you think you can rap? Na fuck that you can't,
you're just saying shit with words that rhyme,
anyone can do that, it takes true skill to implement a metaphor.
And if you tryna diss me, this whole song is a better form of a metaphor,
it's got a meaning, a better core, than your life's existence,
are these words too big for you to spit, too difficult.
Go read a book, quit rappin,
Your a kid still in school, you got a lot more to learn.
Lesson one, don't fuck with me or you'll burn.
Like Usher, why don't you confess what you yearn to.
Go to church, ask for forgiveness from something that don't exist.
Yeah fuck you I said God is fake, just like your rap skills.
How do I know? Because life is fucked, from the start.
Shout out to MC Stutters I feel your beating heart,
that's the bass and treble, but I can't hear the lyrics.
Your heart will never speak to me, not of what you've endured.
Your experience is yours to fight back with, that's ensured.
Using your past as fuel to create ambition for your engine,
I'm wishing you all the best, I hope those bills patch your bleeding heart.
Because I know they've taken mine apart,
so now I spit these prison bars, because then maybe I'll encompass myself behind them.
Freed from humanity and the monetary greed.
This rap can't end now, I'm still not full, I got the urge to feed,
seven deadly sins, movin from gluttony to wrath.
It's not the last, that's why I don't spit my saliva,
I save it to burn you when I take a hit.
You're the blunt I rolled, now get ready to get smoked.
My flow is smooth, I won't choke, no joke.
This song's as serious as they come and go,
it'll become a cliche to hear Paul's the next to blow.
It won't happen, I know, I don't respect any rappers that spit,
that bullshit.
Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Eminem, the very few with meaning when they spew their stew.
It's too hot to intake, it'll burn your tongue, this ain't something you can recite,
wait for the hook to say you had something you sung.
They call this a rap beat, cuz my lines hit you with blows so hard,
you fall back to take a seat, but it's been pulled from underneath.
You hit the dirt, you're back down to your true level.
Your confidence was too high, you needed to be reduced back to rubble.
There's a reason I'm 6' 2'',
I'm high enough above you that I can keep these raining clouds above you,
those aren't rain drops, those are tears.
Am I killing you this bad?
These are just words, imagine if I tried.
It took me just a few minutes to show you what I'm capable of.
So give me a record deal I dare you,
see how bad I fuck up this rap game, I'll kill it myself and recreate it in my image.
My ego is through the roof, call my Kanye East.
Representing the right brain, representin creativity.
I barely rhymed any words back there, did you notice?
I didn't even need to, cuz I can do what the fuck I want and still own this.

Funny Freestyle

I wanna say somethin that mean somethin,
cuz these fake ass rappers say nothin.
When they spittin, I just be sittin,
lookin at em like are you shittin?
What the fuck was that, you talkin bout a millie,
like really? u havent even seen no money silly.
You a bitch compared to yo label,
ur wealth is a young kids fable.
You spittin lil nursery rhymes,
tryna tell me what I ain't doin right.
I dun needa make it big we stay underground,
bitches get scared cuz we go so loud,
we the earthquakes that go around.
This a freestyle, don't expect no metaphors rumblin at yo feet
got less shit to say than Lil Wayne on a beat.
Yes, i said it, Lil wayne is weak,
he raps like a stink bomb, that shit just reek.
He spit like me when I first started, no where near my peak.
where u just rhymin to rhyme, every word on repeat.
That fool needs to leave rap, take a seat,
listen to some real arteests.
Damn I just rhymed so much, I'm feelin elite,
oops I did it again, na, fuck britney,
ya im talkin bout spears, i'm goin off on a tangent,
I dunno wut I'm doin now, just robbin you of yo time like a bandit.
My freestyle got u jumpin like im hip hops rabbit,
my rhymes so sick im like a squirrel that's rabid.
And my blows hit u so low, that yo jeans cant even sag it.
Naa, you can't fuck with me maggot.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Hip Hop

Let's pretend that Hip Hop's a perfect lifestyle,
that the music always represents what's right.
But let's shed some light,
reveal everyday hip hop lies.
Materialistic, degrading lyrics leading our Rick Ross lives.
The P. Diddy's and Suge Knight's of the industry,
livin off other's success, livin off the elite.
Got Soulja Boy's reppin money and hoes,
and real boys reppin life, livin the streets.
These new style generations needa teach,
not brag about the money they record label leach.
Needa stop trippin over beats and try to understand the lyrics,
live a better life & look for inner perfection through your mirrors.
Look to yourself and change this world one song at a time,
show everyone what we all struggle with through every rhyme.
So pick up a pen and tell us about your life.
There's no rhyming necessary,
just put it on paper, and let the writing get teary.

Monday, May 10, 2010


Everyday the same,
he can't think straight or sane.
Waitin for an epiphany, makin that step to rap from poetry.
He's stuck, don't know what the fuck he doin,
to save her, keepin his pen to the paper.
FOr this rap game, what can he write for change.
Write about real life like in the 90s,
or talk about money he don't have, like these dumb kids.
Should he spit fast like Busta or Twista,
or talk slow and call himself a rapper, like Lil Wayne.
It's buggin him badly,
every lil apostrophe.
Unable to extend his vocabulary,
can't end with punctuation, can't be patient.
He just lets his writing flow word by word,
true meaning fluttering like a bird.
With every letter given a different emphasis,
so much meaning, can't empty this,
freestyle cuz his life's so vile.
Sending a letter to the mainstream.
cuz he's the mailman of mayhem,
got them begging to God, chantin Amen.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Morally Poor

The slightest word and you'll see,
a riot within me looking to be set free.
Ragin' and pacin' across my mind,
lookin' to unblind your views, see the true me.
Like Zumie, feeling shutdown and empty,
like you and he tryna understand my vocabulary.
I'm not actually using complicated terminology,
it's just life's too detailed I can't even see,
or comprehend how the world's been to me.
It's contraband, the truth is hidden illegally.
Like government feeding us lies politically,
so obese from the bullshit, we're not fit physically.
Stealing our money, we're in a dark pit fiscally,
and like any other great nation, we're doomed to fall inevitably.
Greed leaves us no patience, as we continue to burn trees.
I'm not talking about weed, just the poison called money.
We're fed this green, from the cunning.
Cash bound to us like the devil,
leaving our humanity in rubble.
With professional panhandlers acting like they're subtle,
when we're all just morally poor and in trouble.

Monday, April 19, 2010


This relationship became inscrutable,
this argument is just indisputable.
It seemed like it was a pragmatic connection,
but it just had no appropriate direction.
So plainly convoluted that I couldn't bear to understand,
so abstruse it was like you were hiding your poker hand.
I'm using this cosmopolitan terminology,
so you can fully understand the complexity of my apology.
This poem is not an attempt to castigate,
no, I don't want to be the type to instigate.
Your circumstances had to be so credible to show me,
so that it would be incontrovertible against my plea.
I'm writing this basically so you're exonerated,
so I can feel like I shouldn't be completely hated.
Your way of thinking was just too scrupulous,
leaving me in an exorbitant mess.
The relationship always had to be ameliorated,
just causing disagreements to be created.
I was so inundated by your troubled past,
my past was so different in contrast.
I had tried to be curative to your dilemmas,
but it just wasn't a probable cause.
You were so dubious that it could work,
it just makes me feel like a jerk.
But I stayed up every night, ambivalent to your claims,
that this wouldn't end; guess it was just all games.
This poem is definitely ambiguous, it will leave you unable to discuss.
What this poem might have meant,
containing all my self-torment.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

As seasons change

The cold winter moon hovering,
we all share her, all brought together.
She is a goddess, overlooking the running river.
Stream struggling to escape, from its confined prison,
slowly gathering speed, flowing away to an ocean.
The grasslands swayed forcefully by the winter wind,
but by spring,
absolutely lavish and free of domestication.
In spring, when the flowers bloom without end,
as each passing day reveals life crowded.
No more cold dark nights, expanded illumination,
early sun rise, expanded imagination.
As raindrops turn to rainbows, as sprinkles of water magnify the blazing sun.
A ray of light revealed at nature's touch,
to encompass earth with nature's tarp.
As the rain settles and warmth is birthed,
summer shows its heated worth.
Burning rays and waves feeling like a curse.
Running to tight crevices to hide from the light,
the cool winter river melts on sight;
as mother nature continues to meditate, ever so quietly.