What is it these days..doesn’t matter what you write, people will buy it anyway.
Rhyming with he, rhyming with yo.
Losing its flow word by word, what is it about – sell out like a smart cookie selling boxes of useless calories, wrapped as happiness next to a gym – cookie scout.
Makes it sound better that it actually is, until you read the content writtin’ on it.
Thing is, real talent can’t be bought.
Reality is though right, since you’re unable to scrabble down your thoughts.
I was at a coffeeshop the other day and this waiter reminded me of you.
Not hiss well-trained biceps nor polite behaviour, no.
Oh my he had so much more class than you.
No, he told a story to his nephew.
That whenever a girl tells a boy to listen to a song, it’s because she’s unable to find the words for what she wants to say.
So in that case, I will dedicate a whole album to you.
23 songs long, since that’s no longer the norm.
You wanted that right, you asked if I could write a song about you.
Well, after all the arguments and fights, I’ve got so much more stuff to tell you, line up in a rhyme you like it like that.
Fake rapper, you can’t even keep up with the beat.
It might be a bit too late, handing you my mixtape this way.
But trust me when I say, all the words are in those songs that I forgot to scream at you when you walked away.
Read between those lines, hear the words the way they are meant to be played.
I will never kill you, god no.
But you made me the person that catches thoughts like that.
Becoming insane of all the games you keep playing.
And you told me I need to see a doctor.
Well, you know what. I wish I could call the Doc. for you so you can get your rhymes back on track, but I don’t think there is no further fixing possible for that.
You just suck at writing rap.
No one cares how many girls you’ve had.
All those things have already been said by the ones who got success from that – after it actually happened and all that.
You wonder why I write the way I write.
I question your statement while @roceda59 and @eminem are playing in the back.
‘I might’ve made a debt, but I find excitement in wondering what I’ma write next, so I don’t stay in debt.’
You made me like that, after the way you played the games, bended the rules.
Is it a crime, to write down what’s on my mind. You’re the one who creates these storylines.
Though talk with your ghostwriter on speed dial.
Battle her – battle me..jeez you can’t even battle your own life.
I’m no rapper nor MC. But writing is the purest form of therapy for me.
Writing down these words one by one.
But I think you misunderstood the definition of MC when you started.
‘Cuz it’s not short for master card, you can’t buy your way into this.
Nor is it memory card, do you even remember who started this? Are you startled?
Maybe you should get back to work, since uncle Donald is screaming your name since the day you were born.
I know I took quite the time, to get back to this writer’s life.
But no one decides to become a writer one day. You’re either real or not.
You can’t dance around the words and disobey.
Ts-ts-ts, it’s the sound you make whenever we meet. It reminds me of my boxing training, maybe you should try it.
It’s to control your breathing, not to casually outing your frustration against me.
You can say whatever you want to say about me, I ain’t no longer impressed by you, that cloud has drifted a long time ago.
But don’t ever talk sh*t about the ones I love, especially my sister.
Because I’ll be the one whom will take away your girlfriend and sister, I can promise you that mister.
And while the song continues to play in the back, reminding me of what you said – of what you’ve done. I think about the past.
This anger. Attraction – affection. Something I can no longer stand, as you hold up your hand.
We’re back at the same place where we first met, where my heart got ripped out of my chest.
You cut me down while I speak, piece by piece.
Hear music while I bleed.
As I try to say that…
– – October 27th ’17 M.B.