Padded Room Diaries: page 3

[FR33KtheG33K]

....my mind is going in eight million directions.....
....this is therapy for me.

voodoo verses penned, pinned, til the pain sinks in,
and you can feel the agony of a man who's patience wore thin,
they hated on him, weak rappers gassed, but ain't breaking WINS (wind)
..I'm just a poet releasing all the pain and rage from within,
flames with a pen, when I write its holocaust on the pad,
imagine the anger of a boy who don't get along with his dad,
all released through the construction of all these bars in his head,
with no outlet, other than trying to talk with the dead
I lost a lot of homies, plenty Henny poured out on the street,
hoping it soak through the concrete and mud into the dirt where they sleep,
...cuz I'm still haunted by their souls stuck for eternity,
they can't cross over forever lurking at the murder scene
all that pent up emotion, penned down in notes and,
released with aggression every time my mouth opens
GOD FORBID they hand the FREEK the Mic he'll never be silent,
draw you into his sub conscious just by cleverly rhyming,
scriptures from a street poet, doused in Ebonics,
even more complex with knowledge when he's roasting the chronic,
quotes are melodic, they're inspired by what I wrote in the doctrine,
approach every bar like a kamikaze plane no hope for the pilot,
alone in my room, in the dark, heart broken and silent,
just how I felt in that moment so everything I wrote it was violent...
slow your roll, i'm your HIGHNESS, the highest when i burn the loud
you heard the sound i'm fckin' turnt up, aint no TURNING DOWN
pour it in these styrafoams, somebody double cup me,
you fckin' lucky, i been chillin' lately, and its lovely
jam the magazine in until its haulted abruptly
then bust off until youre forced to, haunt me, above me
when i die sprinkle my ashes in the bud when you roll the dutch
and reminisce on how i had the fckin' underground in the cobra clutch
ill never sell my soul, the mainstream they can suck my nuts
picture fr33k anywhere near justin or bruno mars unless we knuckling up.
...and im not hating, just sayin'
i'd rather have the love from the subterranean then fckin be famous..
this is straight jakkit muzik, get my tape of raps and use it
as motivation while you shoot up movie theaters with an uzi

... sike.

lets get back to the topic.
i emerged from zombie land where the addicts are dropping,
and ratchets are popping, im like the rose that grew from concrete
and rose way beyond the street, where my partners seek
prosperity breaking crack blocks down to little stones
while i just narrorate the struggle all in my little poems
and the way i paint these pictures, my posts to the audiance (audience)
looks like ive been possessed by the ghost of basquiat
with a mental so twisted, i put it all down descriptive
and give you my daily life what you perceive as horrific
is what i live with, still my heads high, i shoot for the moon
and if it wasnt for my dreams id be shooting at you. done.