|
well if i'm first i might as well make this verse something |
|
you want t listen to, maybe give you a visual of light |
|
illumination for dark times, i'm able just to walk with loneliness |
|
mic sparking, clashing, so to be smashing out these deep flows |
|
paying dues is often the cost |
|
for a professional, i'm exceptional when |
|
i send thoughts into soldier type fashion |
|
march to a hidden part of the pen |
|
splashing out onto the page, words drop in brigades |
|
non-stop brain waves 24-7 |
|
shine or rain, i stay repping |
|
to hold down this black ink, more effective than oppression |
|
i'm letting out loud screams i'm hearing these ghost writers on the scene |
|
invisible to the rest but i know who they possess |
|
control your text before your mouth starts rhyming |
|
sintax, listener, sev, we're joywriting. |
|
hook: |
|
we're going joywriting as we rhyme across the map |
|
with our thoughts shining concepts right into your lap |
|
when we write verbs to link words from ink blurs |
|
it comes out fresh to impress on the paper. |
|
(repeat) |
|
[listener] |
|
i lay the groundwork, throw on about ten layers of intricacies |
|
shrouded delicately through a buried sea |
|
but doesn't matter when you really don't care or see |
|
that i love it, seems like lunacy to chase it all so blindly |
|
catching me so off guard i'm questioning how much you're |
|
feeling me, i could scream like hostages about |
|
how much the man keeps me down or |
|
i could complain like the handicapped |
|
about how my lyrics sound and how it's not accessible, but i won't |
|
i should impress my rap-name on your mind like it's a leather belt |
|
and i might try to make you feel guilty about how |
|
i'm so underground and you're the commercialist |
|
soil on top of me..well |
|
i'll just lay the groundwork and stay content with my beats |
|
mixed in concrete sheets with word repeats |
|
phonetically bound by threads of concept pleats |
|
recycled into thoughts unique. |
|
hook: |
|
[sintax] |
|
my father's prize possession is a pilot ball point pen |
|
he keeps it freshly polished and seldom is it written |
|
but he left last week and so i took it for a spin |
|
joywriting with my friends, swerving in and out the margin |
|
pardon my pleasure because i'm reckless when i grin |
|
i never look before i laugh because that's a waste of inhibition |
|
cross double punchlines and keeping traffic on their toes |
|
i've got em ducking into stitches as i'm steering down the road |
|
offroad imagination goes wherever you suppose |
|
compose in 4-wheel drive to survive the highs and lows |
|
i'm a patouine jedi fully trained in the art |
|
my heart metacholorean count is off the charts |
|
trained with obe 1 kenobe in the early morning sun |
|
spit sound surround like dolby when i breathe through speaker lungs |
|
riding bareback on a banth across the sands of tantouine |
|
using the force to chart my course holding the hands of elohim |
|
who bends my will to win, pod racing on the outer rim |
|
deepspacing as i'm chasing down ideas with my pen |
|
lament for the loss and pray for peace so kids can cope |
|
spit hope, love and joy with every flick of the scripter's pen stroke. |
|
hook: |
