me vs me myself & I ( that's me )...
Yo, the rhythm's off-kilter, the tempo's a stutter, A beat from the gutter, a whispered last mutter. He's clockin' the asphalt, a chessboard of pain, Each move's a Hail Mary to break from the rain. A memory flicker, a flash of a grin, Before the world turned sour and the darkness crept in. They're gone, but they're not, they live in his head, Like a chorus of phantoms, the words they all said. The hustle's a serpent, it coils and it bites, He's chasing the paper through long, lonely nights. A quick conversation, a nod and a shake, Every dollar's a promise, a fortune to make. But the numbers don't lie, they just stack up the debt, A life on the edge, a high-stakes roulette. He's selling his dreams just to pay for the rent, A soul full of sorrow, a spirit unspent. He sees their faces in the steam from the grates, In the shadows that dance behind old iron gates. A son named Marcus, another son named Zy He remembers the laughter and the tears in their eyes. They're names on a wall, a fading graffiti, Just footnotes in stories of a dying city. He raises a bottle to the ghosts in the air, A silent communion, a desperate prayer. This isn't a ballad of glory and might, Just a slow, weary trudge through the long, endless night. The sirens, they wail, a mournful refrain, For the ones who went under, the ones who remain. And he keeps on walking, a king without a crown, Just another lost echo in a broken-down town. He's a vessel of memory, a keeper of grief, A poet of pavement, with no hope of relief.
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Yo, the rhythm's off-kilter, the tempo's a stutter, A beat from the gutter, a whispered last mutter. He's clockin' the asphalt, a chessboard of pain, Each move's a Hail Mary to break from the rain. A memory flicker, a flash of a grin, Before the world turned sour and the darkness crept in. They're gone, but they're not, they live in his head, Like a chorus of phantoms, the words they all said. The hustle's a serpent, it coils and it bites, He's chasing the paper through long, lonely nights. A quick conversation, a nod and a shake, Every dollar's a promise, a fortune to make. But the numbers don't lie, they just stack up the debt, A life on the edge, a high-stakes roulette. He's selling his dreams just to pay for the rent, A soul full of sorrow, a spirit unspent. He sees their faces in the steam from the grates, In the shadows that dance behind old iron gates. A son named Marcus, another son named Zy He remembers the laughter and the tears in their eyes. They're names on a wall, a fading graffiti, Just footnotes in stories of a dying city. He raises a bottle to the ghosts in the air, A silent communion, a desperate prayer. This isn't a ballad of glory and might, Just a slow, weary trudge through the long, endless night. The sirens, they wail, a mournful refrain, For the ones who went under, the ones who remain. And he keeps on walking, a king without a crown, Just another lost echo in a broken-down town. He's a vessel of memory, a keeper of grief, A poet of pavement, with no hope of relief.