Из альбома: The Salvation
24/7, 365, 25 years embedded in these lines,
if I push the pen past the margin on the side,
you can feel the words & every part of them is I
So I push it to the far right,
the bare minimum, overseeing the far sight,
I'm clear into them, no belief in the far hype,
conversating with lucifer under God's light,
low when I'm kicking it, call myself whispering,
covering my mouth so if he look he can't figure it,
knowing that he read it but I still be pretending it,
knowing I'll regret it but I still put my fist in it,
waited on the long run, from the same places that they all from,
first name basis with the wrong one,
& still by the end of it, I back & forth wonder who be listening,
I don't second guess it, I'm just visioning,
pardon my inquisitive,
saw the other hand & wanted the upper hand but ain't agree with the grip on it,
you see the hardest thing I ever had to do,
was determine what I could & what I couldn't tell to you,
& if it's worth it then I'm good & I'm good to get it through,
but if it's not then I'm just working to pursue a pedastool,
& off top, I can show them the end reel,
it's hard to really chill or sit still,
commit to the page,
I write a rhyme & sometimes I won't finish for days,
'cause before I get to finish all the imagery change, but the game is the same, along with the bodeg',
next to the liquor store where all of the hope lays, I mean, the Arthur Agee's can bypass the baggies,
but the common goal is drop coupes in broad day,
so you play the hallway,
with your heart on your sleeve,
& the walls are like a Carter to be, follow leads,
I mean, the tempt got you walking before you get up,
& the wrath of it will put you anywhere that you want,
you see from behind the crowd,
& even your dreams get to see from behind the clouds, but speaking is not allowed,
mama say her piece when she see that you're outta bounds,
her sight's good but her believing is by the ground,
& so she kneel down, hands folded in unison,
cares in the air tryna follow the truth in it,
tears for her fears & the world he ruling in,
burner under the pillow, you don't sleep if you using it,
I call it like I see it,
& if ever the call fails I redial call there & hope you receive it,
by unamimous decision, all of them's telling me that it's me that can paint you Brooklyn like Shelton Lee,
& I ain't aim to make a classic I aimed to state what happens,
so if the outcome gets praised then blame the havoc,
if the outcome gets praised then blame the tragic,
'cause everything I pen is a mirror of your reactions,
& everywhere I been is mirrored within the absence,
where they 4-5 through the static,
they say that the habits is head strong & the more that it's pressed on,
the deeper you indulge, & I can be dead wrong,
but, if I end up getting any of this right,
there shouldn't be anything left to write, right?
if I end up getting any of this right,
there shouldn't be anything left to write, right? So
24/7, 365, 25 years embedded in these lines,
if I push the pen past the margin on the side,
you can feel the words & every part of them is I