He steps up to the mic, he starts to sweat but takes a deep breath. Hes been ready for days, hours writing, some call them a waste. Hes been prepping but he knows its his time, opens up his mouth before he goes blind.The words come out bringing beats to life, like power. He spews words, verse for verse, some hate em, some love em, he rides his lyrical power for the few short hours. Love em or hate him, respect him or don't, it doesn't matter what you think about the verse, hes not the last, not the first.
He stands in a room, soundproof, with a mic in his hand, wrinkled & torn lyrics on paper in the music stand. Earphones replay the beat, replay the tunes,replay the voice over as it booms. Resonates in this lyrical mystery, spitting out lyrical tombs, boom, boom.
