The mind manipulating musings of a confused genius
who misconstrued true knowledge,
thought he needed to have means to go to college,
so he took for granted what God granted,
how he could creatively express his life.
He resented his ability to bless in text so
he worshiped excess, cursed his less.
Blasphemous myths against life flowed from his lips.
Beautiful, hateful lyrics, bringing his audience to false bliss.
Street artist knowledge isn't found in college.
It's a wisdom birthed from a type of life starvation
and struggle through carnage,
leading the mental to cultivation of cryptic ways of
using language to your pocket's advantage.
You can't pretend this lyrical language, structured
by a life that gives soul to words, removing the literal, turning them to lateral versions, and creating a maze of lyrical meaning leading the people into a feeling and a movement-
they're dancing to the banging rhythm of a blind street artist.
His music courses through my veins
still vibrates my soul, brings my tears to overflow
because his God gave him a gift.
And he sold it.
He forgot to love. Forgot he's an artist,
left his soul behind on this quest for profits.
Now he's poison on the mic, disconnected from self.
He's a capital artist turning tricks just to sell.
His precious heart is hardened.
Can't take the pressure. So he fractures,
leaking rapped toxin into every measure.
We breathe it, eat those empty calories in every line.
No substance, just commercial shine.
Attacking our rhythm, dulling our depth.
Now we're starving for meaning
Our souls and minds are left bereft. We repeat verses filled with so much hate. We say so much about nothing.
No intent in uplifting, just self serving consumption.
Chasing slices of life, replaying illusions.
Confusing Hip Hop culture with polished pollution.
We forgot to love. Forgot how to be artists.
We forgot our souls on this blind quest for profits.
So where did it go?
That, old righteous lovin?
Was it lost in the books? In that university learnin?
Or buried on the block where survival was so urgent?
Did the hood take it? System reshape it?
Did it get took by that neo- African- American
skin that covers like ill-fit Kente?
Are third eyes mesmerized by boxes of gold,
were the goals of the souls forgotten?
Because somewhere between hunger,
and hunger for fame, the artist got lost.
And the art...
the art ain't the same.
IAMBIC - I Am Barely In Control 