Back to my room/
Back to my craft, yeah, back to my doom/
Back to the fact that my raps are fact
Every pad that I had gets stacked with the truth
And they stacked to the roof/
Should I rap 'bout the fact that my dad hella sick
And I just spent the week by his side in the hospital in the same pants
And I act not sad 'round my dad but in fact I could yak from this news/
Or the fact that my cuz sold crack out the back of his pants on the ave for some cash
Left my fam in a sham when a man pulled a gat on my cuz, he got BRACKED in his back to his tomb/
Back to my room/
Back to these raps that I craft cause they soothe/
Better than a gram, better than a xan
Whether the weather is worse or better with these letters that I hand in a tune/
Back to my room/
Back to my room, back to the fact that your real friends go hand over hand tryna manage your sadness, I won't take advantage of fam, so I act not sad for the crew/
Cause I love 'em-
Shout to Matty and Kay, this sadness?-
Tryna trump it, never was a fan of the blues/
Back to my room, back back back to my room/
Back to my room, honestly, I'm f**ing thrown/
But I'm Socrates, high philosophies, I'm blunted though/
Do this for my homies that got degrees, but caught the co*k and squeeze on their alma mater street coming home/
We weren't thugs, but we straight played along/
Really cuba good, but had our ice cube face painted on/
Rest in peace to my people who maybe ain't made it home/
Cause their color scheme, red or blue make gray grave stones/
In my room, watching rappers Instagram flex
Rich now but I know you used to be a frugal cat/
Boy, kick the rocks, I hit the b**hes and hit the blocks that you f**boys were too scared to google map/
When I go and spit, I reach your soul and hit you/
Every bar from the heart, every flow is a poem, got you holding tissues/
And my flows rip a whole through the solar system/
Born where they sold dope out the volvo
Hold a fo, cause the po po hold chrome, wake up, this is Folgers roasting in a loaded pistol -BLOAW/
Yeah, they holding pistols/
But the way that a stray graze the face of a eight grader and second hand had his family in shambles
They might as well be throwing explosive missiles/
Born where them fo fo's prone to hit you/
When your soul gone, homie, know them hoes won't miss you/
Got your mom, old, by your head stone, throwing rose, homies toast to your ghost, got 'em holding tissues/
Now, lets get this sh** wavy, Kay got the loud, about an ounce'll do/
My vision is hazy, you found my soundcloud, you found the dude/
Swear Dey is straight crazy, and if you play 'round, you clowns and fools/
You'll be pushing up daisies, like Gatsby face down inside the pool/
Back to my room, back to this craft/
Was sad for a tune, now I'm back on that a**/
Back to my room, back to my doom
Back to the fact that my raps are fact every pad that I had gets stack with the truth
And they stacked to roof/
Them rhymes and rhythms remind me, its my time to bomb now/
Aligning these lines ease my mind, I shine and then I calm down/
Talk to my dad, he say his life flash so fast/
He wonder why his boy only write raps so sad/
But then he heard my tape, heard the verse about him on the outro
It eased his mind, put a price tag on that/
Your gun don't pow pow, fakers, tryna sound bout gangsta/
On soundcloud, y'all are clowns like wow how dangerous/
While you're loud mouth, brainless, I just crowd round stages/
And decapitate emcees after they bow down nameless/
But really rap is therapy/
My room is my sanctum, where no man compare to me/
Every line's an escape from my troubled home/
Take my cards shuffle those, only with a couple flows/