Buddah MAC
11-30-06, 02:57 AM
Born early 80s, grew up on a writer’s block
product of environment, so I’d adopt
the culture surrounding, a craft that intrigued me
the wordsmiths shaping conversation easily
into aural artwork, often set to rhythm
whether posing prose or sculpting poetry from prison
tales, each word was shaped and molded
stoked in the fire, ice cold when they told it
I tried to hold it, but lacking experience
my simple soliloquies lacked the immense
depth of one who’s waded through life a while
stepped to the back and developed my style
playing the wall brought the block into focus
behind me faded brick, tattered Rakim poster
and on the street, I heard the lyrics rain down
steady flow evaporating off the hot block surrounds
makes the air thick with the cacophony of sound
from the corner cats hustle to the school kids coming round
off the bus rockin’ backpacks, forming a quick cypha
and each one convinced, out the rest, they nicer
parents watching over giving that soul foundation
even undertones the thug rhyme creations
as the game given poetically, so they let it be
but as the days develop, I slowly began to see
the writers move away, their offspring stayed behind
but somehow that tradition that had defined
this place had dissipated, though a few still worked it
it seemed that most the young ones lacked purpose
and the craft had fallen aside to the money made off it
so from a skilled creation to a mass produced product
the words fell flat, no wonder woven in them
simply speaking to speak with little talent given
so I try to school them as I once was taught
but when the same care isn’t shared or sought
the deaf ear you fall onto feels no impact
so instead of trying to educate, I interact
and put myself out there with all the block voices
collective sound stronger than if I stayed voiceless
‘sides staying complaining about the artistry missing
‘cause throwing your lines out means any ear fishing
could catch it and be fed, and the craft continues on
standing on a writer’s block to spark another song
product of environment, so I’d adopt
the culture surrounding, a craft that intrigued me
the wordsmiths shaping conversation easily
into aural artwork, often set to rhythm
whether posing prose or sculpting poetry from prison
tales, each word was shaped and molded
stoked in the fire, ice cold when they told it
I tried to hold it, but lacking experience
my simple soliloquies lacked the immense
depth of one who’s waded through life a while
stepped to the back and developed my style
playing the wall brought the block into focus
behind me faded brick, tattered Rakim poster
and on the street, I heard the lyrics rain down
steady flow evaporating off the hot block surrounds
makes the air thick with the cacophony of sound
from the corner cats hustle to the school kids coming round
off the bus rockin’ backpacks, forming a quick cypha
and each one convinced, out the rest, they nicer
parents watching over giving that soul foundation
even undertones the thug rhyme creations
as the game given poetically, so they let it be
but as the days develop, I slowly began to see
the writers move away, their offspring stayed behind
but somehow that tradition that had defined
this place had dissipated, though a few still worked it
it seemed that most the young ones lacked purpose
and the craft had fallen aside to the money made off it
so from a skilled creation to a mass produced product
the words fell flat, no wonder woven in them
simply speaking to speak with little talent given
so I try to school them as I once was taught
but when the same care isn’t shared or sought
the deaf ear you fall onto feels no impact
so instead of trying to educate, I interact
and put myself out there with all the block voices
collective sound stronger than if I stayed voiceless
‘sides staying complaining about the artistry missing
‘cause throwing your lines out means any ear fishing
could catch it and be fed, and the craft continues on
standing on a writer’s block to spark another song