Prolific_1011
04-11-07, 10:38 PM
like spartans...i sharpen... my arrows beneath shadows of street battles
the path to the beast is atleast narrow
im the image of greek statues
or a passage written by priest in discrete chapels
i unleash snakes... that rattle the fate of weak castles
i spit portraits, of pablo drinking wit castro
evil forces sniffing on capsules... of white snow
wit the right flow i paint on the canvas that might show...
an image...of a village in demascus
where lyrics hold the balance to the spirit of the passion
i got empires burning under fire...
the pad is the gas, my pen is the lighter
im just a writer setting the game into flames
wishing i was blessed into fame...
poor or rich...im fortunate
the life i live is more than just...material purchases
a child idolizing money is a worthless kid
they deserve to live under a burning bridge
with the same nervousness settled in funeral services
i celebrate, once the soul levetates
the earth is shifted, but i set it straight
spitting heavyweight...lyrics...
to generate the illest image
no stress, arises from the vatican's old steps
an image could have war vets waking up in cold sweats
normally, flashbacks of normandy is poetry...
just in motion...like graves beneath the slowest waves
of the ocean, where a slave's remains is bones and a chain
i suppsoe they chose to be saved, from years of ferocious pain
history's past misery wrote the books
call me crazy but maybe it's the plan of a hopeless crook
image is reality, so i passively, though massively
write what i plan to be the worlds art gallery
still, a part of me looks past what is too far to see
no drug pharmacy is affecting the armory of my mental philosophy
honestly, the image i see...is christ
the image of life,the image of crime every tick of the time
i see the image of rhymes putting the world back in a line
from israel to palestine, they say the earth is past its prime
but not til' black and white... becomes grey like the saddened skies
and the rain will baptize the thinking of a backwards mind
when im sleep, my dreams shatter the pillow
im haunted by the noises of rain smashing the windows
wit my eyes open, i saw a baby with mary and joseph
on dark horses, following the path of good forces
bible stories...i spit em' wrekclace
check it, the first battle...
came after adam and eve ate the first apple
in came the serpen,
making the person immersive to the bible version in cursive
now the last supper, the paint spoke like a physical poem
the brush strokes...got me thinking
what if i was drinking...off that gold chalice
perhaps, my first track would attract the most passion
the greatest minds never imagined
plane crashes...that could blow giant frames to ashes
lies are blinding the great masses
but any day now, the grey clouds will settle
out comes the devil wit red thorns
that swirl like a fresh storm
my rhymebook is the gateway to heaven
the pages rise...while god judges the motives of a famous life
what could i do...but keep painting,
designing the patterns of my own matrix
im like the color black when it rains
the drug trapped in your veins
i sit on the steps of the church...
just to watch who comes back for a change
solitary confinement...
keeps me thinking...beyond the horizon
excuse me, but im inspired by the beauty
of poems...signed yours truly...
langston hughes b...or the king of true kings from QB
whatever i see you see
if i dream you dream of chemical romances
slow dances with evil... enhances...the principal chess matches
the game is life or death
i spit towards the path of ritcheous steps
where angels spit at venemous black widows
they say "hip hop is dead!!!"
but im bringing it back kiddo
wit a mic and that ny hat symbol
plus a pen that strikes at poisonous mics
my flow is like...the roman tribes under the open skies
wit lyrics that be... blowing your mind...
to pieces, eternal secrets are frozen in time
you hoping it died but im the image that poses...
the state of focus on rhymes
one,
:king:
the path to the beast is atleast narrow
im the image of greek statues
or a passage written by priest in discrete chapels
i unleash snakes... that rattle the fate of weak castles
i spit portraits, of pablo drinking wit castro
evil forces sniffing on capsules... of white snow
wit the right flow i paint on the canvas that might show...
an image...of a village in demascus
where lyrics hold the balance to the spirit of the passion
i got empires burning under fire...
the pad is the gas, my pen is the lighter
im just a writer setting the game into flames
wishing i was blessed into fame...
poor or rich...im fortunate
the life i live is more than just...material purchases
a child idolizing money is a worthless kid
they deserve to live under a burning bridge
with the same nervousness settled in funeral services
i celebrate, once the soul levetates
the earth is shifted, but i set it straight
spitting heavyweight...lyrics...
to generate the illest image
no stress, arises from the vatican's old steps
an image could have war vets waking up in cold sweats
normally, flashbacks of normandy is poetry...
just in motion...like graves beneath the slowest waves
of the ocean, where a slave's remains is bones and a chain
i suppsoe they chose to be saved, from years of ferocious pain
history's past misery wrote the books
call me crazy but maybe it's the plan of a hopeless crook
image is reality, so i passively, though massively
write what i plan to be the worlds art gallery
still, a part of me looks past what is too far to see
no drug pharmacy is affecting the armory of my mental philosophy
honestly, the image i see...is christ
the image of life,the image of crime every tick of the time
i see the image of rhymes putting the world back in a line
from israel to palestine, they say the earth is past its prime
but not til' black and white... becomes grey like the saddened skies
and the rain will baptize the thinking of a backwards mind
when im sleep, my dreams shatter the pillow
im haunted by the noises of rain smashing the windows
wit my eyes open, i saw a baby with mary and joseph
on dark horses, following the path of good forces
bible stories...i spit em' wrekclace
check it, the first battle...
came after adam and eve ate the first apple
in came the serpen,
making the person immersive to the bible version in cursive
now the last supper, the paint spoke like a physical poem
the brush strokes...got me thinking
what if i was drinking...off that gold chalice
perhaps, my first track would attract the most passion
the greatest minds never imagined
plane crashes...that could blow giant frames to ashes
lies are blinding the great masses
but any day now, the grey clouds will settle
out comes the devil wit red thorns
that swirl like a fresh storm
my rhymebook is the gateway to heaven
the pages rise...while god judges the motives of a famous life
what could i do...but keep painting,
designing the patterns of my own matrix
im like the color black when it rains
the drug trapped in your veins
i sit on the steps of the church...
just to watch who comes back for a change
solitary confinement...
keeps me thinking...beyond the horizon
excuse me, but im inspired by the beauty
of poems...signed yours truly...
langston hughes b...or the king of true kings from QB
whatever i see you see
if i dream you dream of chemical romances
slow dances with evil... enhances...the principal chess matches
the game is life or death
i spit towards the path of ritcheous steps
where angels spit at venemous black widows
they say "hip hop is dead!!!"
but im bringing it back kiddo
wit a mic and that ny hat symbol
plus a pen that strikes at poisonous mics
my flow is like...the roman tribes under the open skies
wit lyrics that be... blowing your mind...
to pieces, eternal secrets are frozen in time
you hoping it died but im the image that poses...
the state of focus on rhymes
one,
:king: