Dry As The Ink I Used

Emcee wanna be.
Hard at work, developing tight rhymes.
Summer dream on point.
Unchallenged, he stood strong.
Nonnegotiable, determined not to be part of a click.
Stood up screamed “I am in the building”
The land lord said “this is my building”
You got to pay rent.
Emcee wanna be.
Still trying to do his mic checks
About to make noise.
He got muted,
They didn’t hear him when he saluted.
He was left voiceless
In gold, their names he painted.
With one hand waving in the air.
Eyes tight closed
In another dimension, he could not hear the crowed booing.
The only thing in his mind was to lace his lyrics.
Nothing big,
The biggest thing they heard was beef.
Plotting how to murder him off stage.
This is the story of an emcee wanna be.
He does not look like a b-boy.
With baggy clothes and expensive watches.
He does not twang like the rest of them.
How many still pay the ultimate price.
The system aint friendly.
During development, you got to lick ass.
Call them sir, when you see them.
Treat them like royal emcees.
Or get murdered trying to rock a mic.
It all ends.
And you are left drawing pictures of the mic.
Your bedroom remain your stage
Your rhymes adored by the page.
Dry as the ink you used.


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