Song: Writing them for him
Viewed: 21 - Published at: 8 years ago
Artist: TOM (emcee from Australia)
Year: 2022Viewed: 21 - Published at: 8 years ago
Feel the pressure of the pressing now
A bit of money coming in so you can bet the effort lessen down
Rappers donning stepped on crowns
In attempts to make the totems proud
And in my bare head i promised mum i’d hold her down
Before i let her down
Desperately trying to find perfection inside of a song
Started rapping better when God let my father fly from his form
In spite of his wrongs unrighted, i’m writing them for him
Specific type of pain you don’t fight with a poem
Or light in a pipe to fly where it’s foreign
Climbing to heights where i’m finally home
Your top five should retire the mic now
Constantly frightened and tightly-wound, a couple of fires i might need doused
The day that he died we came home to the quietest house i’ve seen
In my 21 years alive i’ve been frowning at my feet
Stepping on their crowns, too proud to own defeat
Slouching in my seat, scowering receipts for the foul thats in my genes
For the power that i need in-between my teeth
Doubting that i feed when i scream my piece
And flee my scenes, i could breathe like he
I could be like he
It’s like i told you
If you’d seen what i’d seen you would smoke too
If you’d felt what i felt it would mould you too, right?
But i’m desperately trying to find perfection inside of a song
The lion’s share of my reflection is shared with dead men who live inside of my phone
Shed skin to reveal i’m only tired and old
And frightened as fuck because my time is unknown
Lying to some because it’s a protection against laying eyes on my woes
Sprint at the sight of a problem, it’s declining my soul
Hiding my flaws, shining my claws
I’ve seen violence at home, seen my mother cry too many times to play blind to the cold
The grief good but relief better
So the pen leak venom, teeth chatter
Feet tapping, lack patience for your bleak pages full of weak raps, just rip that up
My knees bent up
My father dies again in every song i write, wretched
Sweet relief is searching in syllables for perfection
And when it doesn’t work i’ll try again until i get it
Take a breath in, trying to think straight with the headspin
Can’t let the dead win
A bit of money coming in so you can bet the effort lessen down
Rappers donning stepped on crowns
In attempts to make the totems proud
And in my bare head i promised mum i’d hold her down
Before i let her down
Desperately trying to find perfection inside of a song
Started rapping better when God let my father fly from his form
In spite of his wrongs unrighted, i’m writing them for him
Specific type of pain you don’t fight with a poem
Or light in a pipe to fly where it’s foreign
Climbing to heights where i’m finally home
Your top five should retire the mic now
Constantly frightened and tightly-wound, a couple of fires i might need doused
The day that he died we came home to the quietest house i’ve seen
In my 21 years alive i’ve been frowning at my feet
Stepping on their crowns, too proud to own defeat
Slouching in my seat, scowering receipts for the foul thats in my genes
For the power that i need in-between my teeth
Doubting that i feed when i scream my piece
And flee my scenes, i could breathe like he
I could be like he
It’s like i told you
If you’d seen what i’d seen you would smoke too
If you’d felt what i felt it would mould you too, right?
But i’m desperately trying to find perfection inside of a song
The lion’s share of my reflection is shared with dead men who live inside of my phone
Shed skin to reveal i’m only tired and old
And frightened as fuck because my time is unknown
Lying to some because it’s a protection against laying eyes on my woes
Sprint at the sight of a problem, it’s declining my soul
Hiding my flaws, shining my claws
I’ve seen violence at home, seen my mother cry too many times to play blind to the cold
The grief good but relief better
So the pen leak venom, teeth chatter
Feet tapping, lack patience for your bleak pages full of weak raps, just rip that up
My knees bent up
My father dies again in every song i write, wretched
Sweet relief is searching in syllables for perfection
And when it doesn’t work i’ll try again until i get it
Take a breath in, trying to think straight with the headspin
Can’t let the dead win
( TOM (emcee from Australia) )
www.ChordsAZ.com