I'm pasty awaken, wasting in this basement encasement.
Maybe I'm just a replacement for what was supposed to be greatness.
My madness adjacent to Lacy, on Ramsay.
Comcast and YouTube, I'm enviously crazy.
I'm aimlessly wasted in this twisted, rhyming galore.
Life carelessly destined me to be a silent, writing whore.
And I bleed as I sit, just so others can spit.
And I bleed on this beat, 'cause words are my only retreat.
Besides that, my other choice is the lid,
a lid on a coffin that says, "the world's greatest emcee."
Like Mozart and Chopin, I'm in my own dying league.
I slave in a grave, 'cause I dig my own dig.
What's bigger than big? It's something no one wants to see.
So I'm bleak as a brick, but I spring, like I'm weed.
I store light in my veins, like the branches of tree.
They believe to be me, but in circles they spin, like the wheels under me.
This is supposed to be a hook, but a machine cannot sing.
Who the hell cares, anyway? Let's go to the next sixteen.
Opposite of static, too problematic to be poetic.
Rhymes, so epic, twisting up vapor, from basement to attic.
Sporadic like crack addict, like I'm reaching for a medic.
Life, so synthetic, that I'm reaching for the last love standing.
There's no pretending. I'm all spent up, my faith is ending.
Granting that I continue chanting to these walls,
they'll start melting and shedding like the weight of roles.
But I see rainy skies are fading through the shrinking holes.
Linking rows of applause, in time they froze,
'cause the flows I chose didn't play like dolls.
Hopes hit their lows, and my dreams became my foes.
There is a clause, when marvel is created.
When beauty glows, there's profit estimated.
Not captivated, more like mated, like a jail mate.
It's prison, calculated. In royalties, its rate.
It's death, initiated. I can't escape, but I can write while I wait."