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 wont 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, Im fucking thrown But Im Socrates, high philosophies, Im blunted though Do this for my homies that got degrees, but caught the cock and squeeze on their alma mater street coming home We werent 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 aint 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 bitches and hit the blocks that you fuckboys 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 fos prone to hit you When your soul gone, homie, know them hoes wont 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 shit wavy, Kay got the loud, about an ouncell 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 Youll 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 Im back on that ass 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 dont pow pow, fakers, tryna sound bout gangsta On soundcloud, yall are clowns like wow how dangerous While youre 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 lines an escape from my troubled home Take my cards shuffle those, only with a couple flows
room, back, fact, stacked, sad