The Art Behind Rhymes
• Written by TwoOneEight
Yall tell me I can't rap,
I can't slap,
a few rhymes on a beat and make a track,
Truth is I can't rap,
All I try to do is make art,
Buy groceries for my fam using a cart,
But everybody bombards,
My dreams,
Making it seem,
As if I can't even keep a dream,
Crushing my self esteem,
Your busting my belief,
To a degree so high,
My confidence depletes,
So yeah its true I can't rap,
I'll live my life making an eighth of a stack,
At a McDonald's shack,
Since my rhymes are so wack,
And I can't do math,
Might as well start busting my ass,
In fast food for cash,
First job ends as the last,
My future my past my present,
Making less than an Egyptian peasant,
Its like I'm on my own,
Hook
Strike the magnesium,
Bag em easy hun,
As I crush the dreams,
In my head,
I lie dead in my bed,
Seeing the darkness as it,
Sets fire to my eyes,
No longer seeing dreams,
They all died,
Along with me,
Inside I strive,
To be the best,
Better then the rest,
But the puff burns inside my chest,
Stopping me from blowing out the best,
But I've got my dad by my side,
To ride out the bullshit as it finds,
My soul through all the cries,
It hears me calling out,
Falling down,
Never getting up,
Drowning in the snow,
Burning in the bowl,
My soul bestowed upon minnesota,
Dragging her down like a boulder,
to its ankle,
Watching as I dangle,
My life lies tangled,
Unable to free myself,
I scream,
Its like I'm on my own,
Hook
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About the Artist
TwoOneEight
Member since February 26 2014