This is me. Lost in these young thirties in 2020. Pinging to see who can hear.
lyrics
while everyone that knows me swears i'm floating i just pray for gills
still selling my body in desperate attempts to pay the bills
still riding the subway where pathogens wait to make their kills
still wincing in pain from a year of grinding my labor skills
looking for the clouds to part to catch whatever fate reveals
some unnamed McGuffin to pocket and make the pace feel real
then it all dissolves to a stand still
i try to grasp the scattered sand to make an ant hill
and feeling like the carrot's just a legend
the stick is ever present, don't wanna embrace the negatives
but how could i conclude a loving deity perfected this?
the whole dimension's in desperate need of an exorcist
we're off the slopes and ungrounded beyond the precipice
coyote time is that extra second where dread slips in
not a blessing to perceive eminent death when it ain't
nothing you can do to pass gravity lighter settings, dig?
do you read me, are you literate
can you hear me, am i articulate
can you smell, what i'm stepping in
let your safety go, sink into the depths of this
do you feel, is it sensitive?
what the lick read, is you getting it?
do you see, is the vision clear?
or would it only be redundant if i disappear?
did I tell you be a square? no! Meta did that
so hopefully you'll shape up better than that
don't be fooled more than once, like D***a said
trust in liars to lie, trust in trouble to tread
whenever guards are down, trust it’s torches in the air
devils flee like deer from the roaring of the seraphs
when they lit the precinct up i heard the chorus in the flares
hope for the world, but I'm hoarding the despair
drowning in jobs, with a drought of careers
gotta drown all the sobs under gummies and beers
fifty rip its a month, future medical bills
i could, never afford, til i sell all my feels
& i play, drms, on the whl
wthr, feeln, outta tch or out-gnd n the fld
when the truth is obfuscated such that none can reveal
i’m punching up, til my knuckles kinda numb, do you feel?
do you read me, are you literate
can you hear me, am i articulate
can you smell, what i'm stepping in
let your safety go, sink into the depths of this
do you feel, is it sensitive?
what the lick read, is you getting it?
do you see, is the vision clear?
or would it only be redundant if i disappear?
i'm on my old shit, like it's '06
ways so fixed like, "what the fuck is a COVID?"
look right through my whole existence and you know this
the world is ending, but it's just another moment
in a boat named Hope with a hole beneath the ocean
and the rising tide is rolling, rowers steady rowing
saltwater manifests in every lung until it's swollen
the captains still afloat regard our carcasses as gold
it's, barely metaphor, closer to a fable
we don't get no bowls we get the trickle from the ladle
if they let us keep our earnings they behave like it's a favor
then they blame us for malnourishment when we don't stop to savor, listen
this is labor, feudal serf original flavor
secret ingredients: batons and the tasers
we, die in trash bins, they vacay in Aspen
"you mean it's all class war?" always has been.
Khemmeta's music strives to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves, or are shouted down when they do. His upcoming
EP "When I Get To It" produced by Stephonathan (1/3 of both Pride City Purpose & Chedda Guap Boyz) is silly, nerdy, romantic, anti-nihilistic and defiant. He can't wait for you to get to it this [December]....more
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