you've been at it for years paper pads ink pens studio time and tears not to mention the blood sending prayers above the hard times you endure through the hip-hop craft you love opening major artist shows not looked at as one of the pros

You still got us crowns being featured on lyricist's lounge.

Stress grows, your head pounds.

Niggas by your house licking rounds.

Praying you get the love to escape the hiking ground.

Cause you growing and the people is liking your sound.

They think you're a new star.

We'll be right back.

Fuck it up.

I want my money.

Where's my check?

Next week.

That's what you said last week and the week before that.

See?

Truth is, I don't know when we'll pay.

Three years, May 27th, your release date.

I'm going to get off on a new foot.

Die bad, believe in music.

Go home and write lyrics.

My right hand, I abuse it.

Y'all took my pride and bruised it.

Crooked record company fables.

Be smarter with my heart and choose a much more responsible.

Respectable label.

Careful.

Don't let the canop and label bullet graze you.

I never knew that this life would be so hard.

Music fused with wisdom from the constriction of vocal cords.

I hope to find more with this.

Weapons stronger than a sword.

But my knees have roots for praying to the Lord for a recall.

Somehow my peace of mind turned it.

Your peace of mind won it first of the month.

Just from hype unsigned, but shit is hectic.

My wrist water log from writing a message.

Five mics, my antiseptic.

But I'm my own skeptic.

You paying me to pay you back after laying my intelligence on wax.

When it's this level, I strive.

What the fuck is that?

rap.

Now I'm burning on the back.

Your wife wants a singing contract.

She'll blast you.

Hold on.

Let me put this hammer back.

You're not worth never reaching my object.

Just give me my last check and I'll leave with my respect.

And I might not blow up because at parties my tracks won't show up, but I'm good.

What?

What?

What?

What?

What?