The country has gone soft. Hip hop has followed suit. The sensitive side of society has leaked into the music; too many emote icons.
Girl, you know I’m sensitive, like an exposed nerve.
Yeah and I really want to love you!
Get off that, “Girl I want to love you.
Girl I want to ball you up in tiny pieces and eat you and sniff the sheets where your naked crease is.”
Stop with the short leashes. Put your one leg up; take a leak on your eaches.
His own is his zone, but your domain barely reaches.
Outside of her line of sight you parasite and you’re needy.
You want to crawl up in her ass, set up a couch and TV.
Putting a match to some sort of man card, if you had one.
Her hair in your pocket for thumbing, think it’s time to tell someone.
The break-up was candle lit. That’s the breaks, now handle it.
Check your emotions and center your mechanism for coping.
It’s a natural progression, but keep that group hug session.
Your depression on record is wrecking our form of expression.
Let that emo sigh, don’t care about artistic tie-in.
Step off the mic, continue crying. What we have is dying.
“Girl, I made a mosaic out of your nail clippings.
It’s a heart with a crack. Come back ‘cause my sack’s missing.”
Kids misunderstood the theses, on how it’s cool to not give a feces.
Mentally wet tissue paper moving us to the extinction of the species.
Your soft. The OGs serve you like homemade ice cream.
Cats get decapped by paper cuts, no need for guillotines.
It’s not about the melanin or the side of city you’re dwelling in.
Be settled in your skeleton, don’t bring that jiggling gelatin.
You’ll get smooshed in the face with a pudding pop from Papa Cosby.
It’s costly. If you feel the need to collect yourself, then pause me.
Tragic comedy, your drama’s the butt of a joke.
People standing, waiting at the spiked punch stand when you emote.
And we don’t need to be pulled down. You’re like a shadow in a Ghost town,
Creeping when I’m Swayze and Moore love comes around.
Not like this. I meet the open palm with a fist.
Adamantium spinal column, no tolerance for beached jellyfish.
With no assist, I slick, cross-over and posterize ‘em.
Pic image motivate, get life game and flow to rising.
It’s hard to two-step, with your clown shoes on.
It’s hard to move on, when you got your blues on.
Stop it. This shit was built on sonic testosterone,
rocking the party, talkin’ story and topping everybody.
When you’re surrounded by wolves, can’t be that sheep.
Got your chambers on your sleeve, can’t stop that leak.
Bleed out, leaving you depleted, in need of about a cc of fluid,
wolves through it, chewing the meat out.
from Talkin' Story,
released October 14, 2016
Produced by Samuel Jonathan Johnson Jr.
Additional bass by J8.