Someone said to me that the quality of hip-hop hasn’t declined,
It has merely changed address.
I ask how moving house makes a man lose his-story, to
The point he attends a club wearing a dress
And drops to his knees for music’s head, after
Bending over for music’s executives,
Begging for time in the booth so he can sing their future.
This mess we see is repetitive.
Debasing himself for likes and losing his-story
For money, mumbling a lack of inspiration.
Hip-hop hasn’t changed address but has, rather
Forgotten its destination.
What goes around comes around but we
Do move forward in time.
So we may never see what used to be but that
Doesn’t mean we have to descend from the standard line.
Can you see Young Thug at a table of greats,
Being offered a fair share of the rappers’ plate?
Between Pac, B.I.G., Jay-Z and Nas,
Adding fire to cassette mixtapes?
I think not.
He would have found himself Ghost Faced with a
Masta Killa and understood that C.R.E.A.M was intuition.
Corrected by the Hellz Wind Staff and made
To walk the 36 Chambers to earn a position
Lyrically. Learned from Nas, to realize you don’t need
To be God’s Son because it only takes One Mic to feed,
Those willing to listen, the Ether.
Because black men are crying out for minds to be freed.
Did you hear what Young Thug had to say when
He was asked about the death of Mike Brown?
He broke number one of B.I.G’s 10 Commandments
And told us how he has money and ice in the right now.
That mess made me glad that there is no Future
In that group led by Gucci,
Who struggle to find content outside of
Molly, cars, money and coochie.
But the Future is still dark, as I stand on Pluto,
Glancing Earth’s realities, seeing why the Future Is Now.
Because there’s nothing going forward and sense is no more
Common. Rather, a fake Paradise for men who bow.
Lil’ Wayne will give us our fill of “bitches” and “hoes”
Because, God forbid we treat women right
But, then, this is the same man who said that
Racism doesn’t exist. Clearly a man who sees the light.
But he will not be a lamp unto my feet nor,
Having strayed, a light unto my path.
I feel sorry for those that see him as a shepherd,
Assuming his lyrics and content are a rod and staff.
But, while these men throw and catch wood,
I continue to look around for those that are content
To produce their story without Desiigner content.
That leaky fabric. That’s a con-tent
That some con’s sent. Propped up with nonsense,
It holds no water. That’s a con’s tent.
Cons because they produce the bars that
Lock them in their own prison
And, unwilling to be clowns on their own,
They ask for our dollars so we can be clowns with ’em.
We want standards over money and reality over
Their fairy-tales and make-believe.
The Dollar they beg is based on debt so their
Fairy-tales are fake beliefs.
I don’t speak for everyone but my dollar won’t
Follow the sounds of these calling wood pigeons.
Cooing over auto-tune in skin tight jeans.
That, to me, is just not True Religion.

Gemini Dimension


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