[yo does somebody know where I am?, pssst yo can
somebody please tell me where I am, somebody please]
Yeah I could feel your heart pulsing, from this side of the room
I could fulfill the emptiness that consumes your body, watch me bloom
As soon as scottie beams me down to this place that I just clowned yelling:
“Yo, where the fuck am I?” Excuse me sir I got
stuck when I drove my truck over this pile of sitting duck MC’s
Getting crushed here. Pieces of head from the treads of my goodyear. Would
there be anyway that you can lend a hand to demand an abstract land where
mic’s, turn-tables and spray-cans stop the main man? Through my
brain jammed I may stand in the village of the damned but I spend my
energy like cash trying to escape this toxic wasteland I’ve
got to face the enemies that pass the line of symmetry, welcome
to the rhyme penitentiary, for centuries MC’s were aware of my
name stands on the bare naked, un-carved block of hip-hop.
From this side of the room a heart to hearts inside (your mind)*. Listen I’ve decided to doomed, I cry when it’s noon cause they poison the food for thought,
but now it’s silent but soon the voices I hadn’t talked. I try
to assume I could really trust the people I listen to, but they get
all their information off that shit talkin box that sits in the living room, I
fly to the moon and back every time I close my eyes, every
rhyme I wrote floats the sky the sky’s in a mushroom cloud
formation made from atom bomb explosion, blocking emotion,
light bluer eyes from a potion, corrupted mental puss puddles.
Each family contains: ink stains, contaminated
brains, dead cells and mutilated veins. Who
created pain? What the hell is insanity? An unpopular
perception of reality brought to society? I
try to behave, and act like a slave and walk
in the direction I’m told on the roads that they paved.
One day I’ll escape incarceration, but until then I’m
just a sick worn out voice mental patient. (x3 layered)
Just a sore throat, worn out voice mental patient.
[come on/where am I?]*
It’s beautiful in here, wouldn’t you agree? What you
hear and what you see is manipulated by
music loosens/enduces* your fear, you’ve obviously lost your marbles
only the insane hear your lyrics stimulate the mind, the mind,
*(above time?) the mind absorbs and analyzes sound
as it floats from headphones when your lonesome, no ones
around, and your spines tingling, goosebumps, shivering,
quivering, it’s creepy, I’m sleepy, leave me the fuck alone.
Turn off the phone, my dome is beeping, I’m enclosed in
4 bleeding walls I call this home eyedea zone.
My speech just roams in search for peace, bouncing off your
thoughts as words secretes stomach acid gastric juices
digesting the lining of your intestines inclining up, up, up. I must be
claustrophobic at a pause with flows for vocal arobic practice
to keep me occupied before the closet opens, un-
locks in motion, need to focus my potent toxins through
talking and neck Walkman. I’s so on
So I’ma explain what I am simple and plain: No human,
but just a voice invented to play a mental game. You
visualize brown eyes, baggy jeans, earth dwelling Bboy reading
graffiti magazines, smoking beaties, grabbing mic’s, chillin at
the bus stop and kickin flows, but you got twisted:
I’m just a voice, I have no physical position. Since you know
me only through what was said: I’m just a voice and
all along this song could been all in your head. All in your head.
That’s right, this song, all in your head/mind*
In reality I’ma mortify on what upsets me that many
disgrilled the real vinyl brain tissue memory deal with me.
I’ma be around till the end of time in reality no else
hears me. I’m all in your mind. (x2)
