Beyond the door I close to isolate myself and find myself
The only sounds that melt their way outside this hell is lightly swelling
Pen-stroke crescendos, intermittent hasty whispered tones of crispy prose
And every 15 minutes, hitting stoges
But in these walls, explosions roar, magma flows and pours
MAGA crowds meet antifa over open borders, holding swords
Banshees in hysterics harmonize with rumbling engines
Next to seven sets of cymbals stuffed inside a dryer, spinning
I sit stoic in the center, stubble scented of sativa
With a pen, a pad, the clothes on my back and the rubble I'm underneath of
Trying to clean up my act, keeping I.D. intact
Attempt to re-right this life I previously mis-stacked
Deviously distracted so frequently that it
Puts a kink in these frequencies, shame on my average
Came in the game claiming the raining of pain
That was eight revolutions round the sun since the day
Of the first draft crafted, laugh at my old raps
Glad procrastination had me sleeping on that
If I'd have put it out then, I'd be put off at the fact
Cause I guarantee it would've been trash
Just a parakeet expelling overused flair and memes
His youth, a carried scream
(Echo, echo, echo)
At seventeen he thought he'd be the king by twenty-three
But now he's twenty-three, nearly left his dreams and had to let go
Since he graduated, seething deep in poverty
And all he needs is collard greens beneath the roof he calls his keep
However since the outset, he's been ousted by himself
For all the couch-sitting, mouse-clicking, notches on his belt
Or lack thereof, in the case of the latter. And it tells
Because the bags beneath his eyes look like a side view of two whales
On a huge scale, connect the bluetooth, let the music blare
This is forty two, the hand around my throat that's been reducing air
But who would care? But who would care?
Guess we're gonna find out

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