- yours truly…the archetype of rhyme schemes many bite
- halfway thru many lives, rite back to i n she
- thoughts of her still high as HE, i dig her long time, even absentmindedly
- underground or otherwise, legally or unauthorized
- still dropping some heavenly bits
- reloaded n rite back at ya like 76
- just a passerby quarter verse
- wont be no more long waits for what i’ll offer next
i write halfway between about and for her. yet she wants me to wite her a poem. even after she’s inspired all that i write. i’m no poet, i done suggest. even after endless dreams of parading as one. i’m an emcee motherfucker. mine is the beat and the mic. have a seat, i’ll kick one over ones and twos. i’m hard pressed to find a head with no “swag” nowadays. so i’m tempted to take it to back in the days when “wack” was just that. n u could smell such a cat ten feet away. from where O.G.’s hold heat and spray and believers take heed and pray. destiny forever calling. from moutain peaks where i ever rest, never falling to basements. to what jazz is to amazements. ill, longevity like patience, thus admired. rhyme archetypes still fresh since yours last expired.
- at times i be so profound, not even i get me
- yet sound thoughts frequently set free
- this here moment u n i can share like freeware
- don’t need to be on no plane to transverse galaxies nor see clear
- all i need is insight to counter fallacies and simply be her
- sweet HIP HOP, the love of mi life, this period in yo herstory is critical
- so critical i can feel my palm sweaty already
- i feel watered down but opposition couldn’t fool me cos
- i spit fire, and they cant cool me up
- eff what u heard n done read
- i done had what u have
- in yo book of rhymes, dumb head
- i done took some time, shook some minds
- left behind clues 4 multitude of crews
- n yes, from where i’m stand, she still looks damn fine
pack yo bag, mi dear. say hi to this eminent journey. it’s time we discovered us again. you’re mine and theirs alike. matter o’ factly, whoever can hold you to a mic. the irony in it, you are slut to none of us, considered . matter o’ factly, we slut for you and we loving it. dig it? you rain phat rhymes, at times i get overwhelmed, can’t seem to get over them. the poetry of the tragedy is i’d die for you on any given sunday. ya heard?
- like glass houses, we’re fragile, u n i both
- moreso in unison, so we stay stoned
- throw tantrums and trigger fear on each other like handguns
- i love you my dear, love you to death
- love you when here, love you when i made you left
- loved the sunhine in your eyes and teary bits in mine
- take this moment as is, all is fine
- since nothing ever really dies
- so you return more butter and more fly
- n i return flower, rather dry
- but you can rest on me
- picture photosynthesis, u n i both free
- if not for air, live for trees then
- why die by yourself when we can create collective energy?
- as fate would have it
- this here moment be marvelous
- and heavenly bright
- captured like 75
- my eyes snap upon a bunch
- this written packs a punch
- you know how i does…i do iced rappers for lunch
- gems drip off my pen like a well gelled perm
- then slip off my hand, psyched again and again
- and it don’t stop, we is hip hop. yes sir
- from naf naf, to a bloody buck-in-half’s gear.
- from past years to this here
- till we greyish and can hardly hear on both ears
- we is hip hop always, might have tripped on pop slightly
- based my drums on neo tech and just lounged with it to spite me
- run to any house, anyhowever you prefer to rock
- the alternative remains the main domain, hip hop
- the one i’d die for
- whether they scream peace or cry war
- you are my darfur,
- you are my “what man made global warming gave birth to”
- rhymes so intricate, they slice rappers into bits like dope fudge
- lines fashioned in patterns you’ve come to love
- writing meth damn near retarded, sheer hearted
- phat as i am beer gutted
- scribbled for you sincerely, purely seeded deep
- that kid named spark, joyful thots preceded this
- read mine in rhythms, poetic hip hop is made of
- heed like hymns, this aint no one dimensional kick-offs
- taking it back to being dope based solely on writing ability and such
- delivered handsomely and ugly as fuck
- one luv to the original squad, it’s yo boy Chak
- there where birds’ feathers go further, juxtaposed to outter glows of sunsets’ gradients
- i writes to and fro like mi son Ristos’ ambience
- there where trees form silhouettes
- and these words are known to kill mo cats
- who be thinking, they be illin’ but still so wack
- i writes to touch a few if not many
- much ado with nada like if i court a nanny
- fake ones claim dope but cant tell a forest from a tree
- Chakih blazed one for a true writer in me
- lyrics be so ghetto and so slum grounded
- left a newbee and a groupie both, dumbfounded
- astounded, switch between ass kicks
- and some class spits, dsq since 96
- paid dues, str-8 illin’, paid doctors mad visits
- hi-fi’s to wi-fi’s
- saw enuff cyphers, enuff crazy chickas who shoot from the hip, no bluff snippers
- done took it from off-the-dome
- to writtens, to what’s cooking in the kitchen. to doing mi own shit in rome.
- to down-right ass whipings.
- tested on occasion, but my formulae be way timeless, mi rhyme stay fresh
- highly encrypted, words simply…fall into place,no matter what i say next.
- spark summtin wicked, vocab unlimited like test over cricket.
- i jot with no hiccups, tell your favourite jog to sit up
- yo boy has mo lines than a club got pickups.
my dearest HIP HOP, the love of of my L.I.F.E. first n 4most, it’s been long as fuck. tho i’ve lust yo touch just as much. plus ran outta reasoning n excusing so i wont shift ‘em to L.I.F.E., even tho at odds as always, n she does suck as such. i’ve learnt, in the interim, to water down all manners of warmths. burnt rhythms, slaughtered nouns, all hammered OHMS. i’ve mastered the art of time-reversal. nite n daytime are nowadays, a mere mind rehearsal. “sleep when i’m dead”, she said. well, i’m dying for some sleep. saw my own two reflected in the mirror. but could only see red. out went me like bad cast. absentee in his class. that’d be mi son Risto. if one could choose one’s father, i wonder what he’d choose me for. gotta keep convincing self, it’s all 4 his future wealth. gotta burn this oil. dear HIP HOP, i’m appreciative of yo company in this hour, keeping rapping 4 me like foil. bring back a certain tribe called quest if at all possible. spice up these high heeled boys with tall obstacles. run them off mandela bridge if at all plausible.
- if only my slave master could pat mi back now n then
- u know, just so i could bear these 24hr grinds that know no ends
- my less time spent with mi son Ristos
- would be a lil worth these pains on the neck and limbos
- goddamn these chinos, while at it.
- this bloody chiskop for being unchildish.
- instead, my master, she rubs salt in it, verbal assaults, kid.
- minor skiddish faults vaulted.
- what a biaitch.
- tho she deserves to, i pray she never runs into this write.
- nkaba wa mang? ka etsang? ka ithola ke lapa.
- ke kgutlela berea, ba ntlhaba ka dithipa.
- ba re ke tswa mozambique.
- chance is a biaitch
- there’d be no mo iddish
- to take from this j.o.bullshit
- if only i’d landed those 4 other lotto digits
- nkabe ke sa tsebe ke iketseng.
- ke ithola mpa di tletseng? ke kgaba ka majabajaba.
- ke le kaekae, ba ntlhaba ka dipuo.
- ba re la ntawa leruo
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