syfythemosthigh-blog

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Oh lord Jesus, Repent for our sins in grievance It’s all knees, To the flag, When we pledge allegiance I could never stand for no values of fake freedoms, Of which this country was built, By supreme beings

On my Fuck Donald Trump shit, Flow tighter than Bushwick, We low lives in America, we ain’t equal, Just all on bullshit, I don’t blame the system, I blame the niggas that pulled it, Pale faced demons, Claiming they pray from the pool pit, Nah

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Some Days, I Reflect

I’m not a child any longer, I’m a young man. I have a job, I go to college, and I’m no stranger to following the rules of the road. Though I’m just now beginning to sniff the concept of adulthood and what it really means to live, I’ve seen things, I’ve done things, and I’ve been through a lot of hardship. Though I’ve never really struggled financially or academically, I’ve seen people come and go and I’ve felt for those who aren’t as blessed as I am. In all honesty, those factors may have contributed to why I often acted out and didn’t make the best decisions as a child. No child is born with the ability to evaluate what's right from what’s wrong, to separate the figures in life who are only a facade, or to understand that the decisions that are made today will affect tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow. Those things come over time and I’m no stranger to any of it.

 I am not the same person that I was in my adolescence. But it’d be foolish to say that those times, those moments, and those experiences didn’t mold me into who I am today. This is true of every person on the face of the planet. Those years of malleability, ineptitude, and overall imprudence are often times the years we remember the most. My fondest memory of those times, I think about almost on a daily basis. My grandmother was a very loving and careful person when I stayed with her. But she couldn’t keep me out of everything. One such time, I remember she had to visit the supermarket a few blocks away to gather some ingredients for dinner so she left me at her house alone. My childish ways got the best of me. I was cool with all the OG’s in my neighborhood. They trusted me and they taught me. On this particular day, they wanted me to ride with them. They didn’t say where to, they didn’t say for how long, and they didn’t give me a choice. I obliged and proceeded to share a 1996 Chevy Impala with 3 men I didn’t know the most about.

Though they didn’t give me a choice, did I have one? Couldn’t I have just said no? Couldn’t I have just made up some bullshit explaining why I couldn’t go with them? Couldn’t I have just closed the door on them and locked myself inside the house?  Wouldn’t they have just found another smart kid in this bad neighborhood to ride with them? I wish that I could say that these thoughts raced through my mind at any point in time between my grandmother’s front door and the backseat of the Impala. But of course, they didn’t.

The car reeked of Four Loko, some shitty grade of marijuana, and bad influence. The car was a hot box the entire trip. We traveled near, far and wide. Our first trip was to the mall, where I couldn’t touch anything, my eyes were to stay forward, and I couldn’t speak unless spoken too. They saw a lot, they touched a lot, and they quietly took a lot.  Our next trip was to the Golden Arches, where they paid for their food in only one-dollar bills and ate quickly. I was not fed. Our last trip was probably the quickest but felt like the longest. The eldest of us, who happened to be the driver, pulled up into a graffiti-filled, run down looking, eerie feeling apartment complex. He was to be the only one to get out of the car and if either of us got out of the car, there would be consequences. Of course, I obliged. I waited. Two men sharing the car with me, but I felt alone. I missed my grandmother. For the longest time, I heard nothing but the sounds of breathing and restlessness coming from the other two men as well as myself. I tried passing the time by counting the number of cracks I saw on the sidewalk adjacent to the spot we were parked in. I remember the exact number I got to: 22. At which point I heard a very distinct noise that I’ve heard plenty of times before.

 You see the “hood” is a jungle. And you can either become synonymous with that of a predator or you can be one of the people caught with their pants down getting preyed on. When put under pressure, the predator does whatever they’ve got to do to survive. And that includes killing, selling drugs, stealing, assaulting, etc. That’s the way of the “hood”. When put in a bad situation by factors out of accessible control, people respond by resorting to chaotic judgment and actions. That holds true to any environment on the face of the planet.

 My grandmother’s neighborhood was no stranger to burglary, homicides, assaults, or any other major crimes you could think of. Police sirens, firearms, tires screeching. At points in time where you may have to close your windows, lock your doors and burrow yourself into bathrooms and closets, sounds are pretty much all you have the ability to focus on. I know a Glock .40 when I hear one. The shot may as well had been right at my nose. I knew the shot was fired close by and in close range. I froze. A few moments went by, and the driver reappeared at the car. His face was expressionless and his demeanor was emotionless. I knew what the deal was, so I shut my young ass up.

 The ride home was silent. And it wasn’t just silent from there being no talking inside the car. It felt like the whole city had gone silent. There we no car horns blaring or engines revving, there were no screeching tires, there were no birds chirping or dogs barking. It was like the gunshot put the whole world on mute. When I finally got back to my grandmother’s house, it was about 8 o’clock in the evening. My grandmother had been worried sick. She was angry and threatened to beat me. I did not speak. My face was as cold as the driver’s as I walked back into the guest bedroom and laid my head down on a pillow.  My unphased nature must have seemed very unnatural to her. She didn’t question me any further and she spoke nothing of this incident to my parents at all. She most likely had no idea what I had experienced but also most likely knew that I’d remember what happened for as long as I lived. I didn’t leave my grandmother���s house much during future visits. It was no doubt a good thing. Who knows how much trouble I may have gotten in had I kept fucking around with the streets. I still see that driver every now and again. Sometimes, I even listen to his music. He’s a pretty big rapper now. I’m glad he found a way out of the street life almost as much as I’m glad I made it out. You live and you learn throughout this timeline we call life.  But one thing’s for sure, we both had no business doing what we were doing.

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2015 was the year I really started to understand the diversity and unique stylistic qualities of artists in hip-hop. Every artist isn’t meant to be in the same lane nor should they even be compared to artists who don’t share similar qualities. In a multitude of ways, I feel like hip-hop fans have been conditioned into failing to acknowledge the different sub-genres of hip-hop. We’ve been brainwashed into believing that all artists have to exhibit the same qualities.

I’ll most likely delve deeper into these sub-genres in a different post, but my purpose in mentioning all that was to highlight some of the reasons why I feel Future is so underappreciated by a lot of hip-hop fans. In my personal opinion, Future is the best rapper in the game. That opinion may come with a bias because he’s my favorite rapper, but his track record and influence shouldn’t be ignored. Future’s melodies and catchy lyrics along with production from producers such as Metro Boomin, Mike Will, Zaytoven, Southside, etc… have influenced a whole wave of new artists and producers who are trying to capture and run with the whole trippy, deep bass, immersive and infectious Atlanta trap sound. 

Future has an unprecedented ability to make hit songs, which I believe takes a lot of attention off of the deeper cuts on his projects. Songs like The Percocet & Stripper Joint, Feds Did a Sweep, Comin Out Strong, etc… offer good lyricism along with the amazing melodies. Future is unquestionably one of the best rappers in the game and if not, the best rapper in the game. 

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And if I cry two tears for her 
That would be the most that I can give to her 
I am Joseph, Darryl, Jason, Dr. Dre, O'Shea 
And a host of those who passed away 
Today I’m Drake, I’m Wayne, 2 Chainz 
You say you want to rap, to this bitch you must commit 
Then you’re a slave to your grave, you won’t get out, you cannot quit 
She menstruates weekly, her vibe covers keep you warm 
But the source to her heart is love, word up, right on 
You know how girls are, she love when you licking on her world star 
Kissing on her belly, trick on her at Onyx 
Confused fans think that she illuminates demonic 
But she’s the object of my affections, God’s essence, God bless her 
She bought me Bentleys, Breitlings, made some friends resent me 
For writing about my life, they thought I should have stayed quiet 
She took me to places I would have never saw without her 
And she took me from my girl powder 
I doubt I’ll ever be the same, hallowed be thy name 
Give me strength so I don’t do this dame like Orenthal James 
Brad warned me while driving this auburn Ferrari 
Never follow in her games, I fuck around and I’ll be sorry 
But I tried her used to ride her, for dollars not the fame 
She slowed me down and had me guzzling on cups of lean 
She’s a middle-aged cougar, showing young'uns the dream 
Noticed she wasn’t breathing for a second then I screamed 
"She’s dead!“ and everybody took it out on Nasty 
I was just looking out for my music family 
Wasn’t trying to claim her to myself, she’s yours 
You can have her she’s a motherfucking whore
I fuck Hip Hop


Nas

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ROCKY

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Yay stack seven feet tall 
Swear it look white like a wall 
What you know about thumbing through the hundreds 
20s and the 50s, spending tens and the fives at the mall? 
I done seen it all 
20/20 Pyrex vision 
Catch a contact standing next to my kitchen 
Hear the 20s, 50s, hundreds, the money machine clickin' 
And my Rollie ain’t tickin’, I ball
I done seen it all

Jeezy & Jay Z

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Survivors' Story

Mothers cracked out, Brothers cracked out, Fathers cracked out, Cousins cracked out

Hospital beds, half dead With they backs out, If you live in the slums, Then you know what that trap bout’

Walking Zombies, Fear the Walking Dead We all survive, And fill their tops with lead But don’t support the feelings that they dread

We stride and thrive, But never realize, The red in eyes, Are more than just a high

No tears of joy, But pain inside, they cry Some want better, Some just tryna die

It’s time to ride and, Help our fams in need, Jesus wept and on the cross he bleed

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The Real Coming of Age

The immaculate win, The improbable sin I killed off everyone who laughed at my expense, Half-man, half-amazing and I ain't talking Vince, More like Faunsanity, But the words I speak are not a myth In some strange way I think I resonate with Lebron, I'm talking Matthew 27 verse 38 with Lebron The world doesn't recognize that you're great Until you're gone, And all their left to do is place, Flowers up on your lawn

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Surely I'm turning into the Aaron Hernandez of rap
State of emergency, the planet's having panic attacks
Brady's returning, matter of fact I may be deserving
Of a pat on the back, like a Patriots jersey
Inexplicable stomach growl from the pit of it
Like a fuckin' Terrier hid in it
Despicable, dumb it down, ridiculous
Tongue is foul, shoot off at the fuckin' mouth
Like a missile, a thunder cloud
Hundred pound pistol, pull the trigger, this gun will sound
And you'll get a round, like Digital Underground
And fuck Ann Coulter with a Klan poster
With a lamp post, door handle, shutter
A damn bolt cutter, a sandal, a can opener
A candle, rubber, piano, a flannel, sucker
Some hand soap, butter, a banjo and manhole cover
Hand over the mouth and nose smother
Trample ran over the tramp with the Land Rover
The band, the Lambo, Hummer and Road Runner
Go ham donut, or go Rambo, gut her, make an example of her
That's for Sandra Bland, ho, and Philando
Hannibal on the lam, no wonder I am so stubborn
I'm anti, can't no government handle a commando
Your man don't want it
Trump's a bitch, I'll make his whole brand go under

Eminem

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Eminem.

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