I bleed rap music for kids who need rap music, who feel trapped by their own aptitude to crackle through black fuses. Maybe it’s my hubris. When I speak, feels like the roots of a new movement. Call it that because it moves us. Ain’t it about time? Ain’t we been feeling a little cooped up, sick of copping bruises for these jokes that don’t amuse us, punch-line after punch-line, waking up nursing contusions in these unfamiliar rooms with no sign of a conclusion? Big was depressed. Pac was depressed, so if you feel like you got no more oxygen left, and the option to top yourself is constantly a threat, with no “Bombs Over Baghdad” accomplishments met, take a breath – take a lungful. Son, it’s your drumroll. Girl, it’s your night out, have some rum. Let it unroll. Meet the sun with a dumb grin. Twist. Hit the streets. Spit that flow like pumpkin seeds.

Chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out like pumpkin seeds.

I glow hip-hop for those who know hip-hop is the one, true god on this rock, and she’s so hot, and only feel confident locked inside their space invader vessels with the system cranked and speeding towards her rescue. It’s the feeling that you’re best served burring colder than revenge, your engine whirring like it’s worried like it will come up with the bends. Cracking out like hostesses. “Please pony up for happy mouths, and we’ll meet down at ten o’clock pretend time down at Gatsby’s house.” Chew ‘em up or get chewed up like taffy’s bout to get chiseled into a plaque, plastered on the backs of jackets with spray caps, and raffled off to rabid dogs frothing from the lack of water. Plus their fucking Cappadonna CD’s scratched. So, that’s a goner. And to cap it off these matches can’t catch shit before the catalyst for masterpieces gets CASEVAC’d, or shatter-snapped to atoms that lake avenues to travel back to that old patch of broken homes they call the blues, but truth is there’s another catch. The thunder that’s been drumming in your blood is ‘bout to seep into the rug that really tied the room together, but you see, if you can be a better you, I’ll need to be another me, and spit these nothings out my teeth, like, peace, pumpkin seeds.

Chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out like pumpkin seeds.

Bet I quake break-beats for 808 fiends who still mainline mainstream rap tracks ‘til their face green. Can I inquire as to what sort of fires you’re tasting? What sort of war-torn edifices effacing? Are you holed up in the basement of your parent’s house just spacing at your Facebook wall and raging at the dying of the day? Are you squeezed into a subway car, and hardly holding back the part of you that wants to give up and just let it go to waste? This is “Amazing Grace” to hum as rusty razor blades get run through bumps at parties where the hearts of young emcees get crushed to garbage. This the sort of song to sing along to when the call comes through that no one, despite all pursuits, respects you as an artist. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a cliché like life to heed. Might I suggest we convalesce together, rest, let it free? Let it be my medicine, my everything, my better half of what’s to come while I’m still young, this pumpkin seed. May I repeat?