Unborn age

All my positive intentions,
contorted into full blown infections,
hindering forward progression,
frustrations are continuously endless.
Ripping on this mixer, pounding out these beats,
not even these lyrics anymore completely satisfy me.
Cut off at the knees,
crawling on these stumps, but can't see my destiny.
Everyone expects me to believe everything to be alright,
I was born as an adult from the onset of this life,
was a six year old father,
raising my brothers Jeremy and Josh,
now the noose of no childhood adorns my neck,
and the floor is about to drop.
One brother dressed to the nines,
the other is dr. atsab,
to understand my family,
spell his name backwards.
One smashes rhymes,
the other argumentatively incessant,
one thinks he's right, and the other a manic depressive.
So if you think I'm crazy for flipping from hate then to love,
try raising two brothers and a mother,
at five years old while growing up.
I once wrote a hook that said
"I write from the perspective of a poor fatherless bastard",
now the lack of sympathy doesn't really matter.
I was born as an adult,
and have grown up completely backwards.
I'm an unafraid coward,
who has tears in his eyes,
but to you I can lie, as I hide behind these rhymes.
I just pull out this pen, and write about love,
and you think I'm all happy,
to me your belief is seemingly good enough.
Then they want to help me, but it's too overwhelming to hear,
ask me how they can help,
but say I hate with my tears.

---

Why write about love, when it only gets debated,
taking the love that I portray, and manufacturing it into hate,
this takes me to a place where I feel raped, and ravages my soul,
it makes my body shake quiver and ache.

I've given up my world, where no one else would dare,
and in return I receive cold dark stares,
I would barder off my soul, if that's what I had to do,
to make you understand, that I really love you.

---

I'm a forgetful monster, and boy have I lost it,
but my lyrics will ensure I will be hated but not forgotten,
so as I sit here and rhyme, I know the legacy I leave behind,
you can decide to love me, or believe in the lies.
These lyrical tracks,
are on beats I've produced,
I created the melody,
and wrote the words too.
No education in music, I did it all myself,
I've gone an entire life without any help.
So when I'm dead and gone and as my grave collects dust,
know I achieved my goal, of writing and producing rap tracks you can trust.
I grew up before NWA and the west coast stuff,
the young Brooklyn Beastie's, and the other east coast kids.
Now I take my knowledge of the culture, and the persistence and gifts I have,
I write more potent lyrics, and rap better than they ever did,
I'm not afraid to be cauky, those who know what I do,
know that they rapped for money, while I rap from truth.
I'm not afraid of a battle, I go out looking for a challenge,
I accept praise for kicking ass, and I graciously accept defeatist laughter.
I lived as a rhymer, and will die as a rapper,
you'll have to decide,
whether my rhymes really mattered.

---

Why write about love, when it only gets debated,
taking the love that I portray, and manufacturing it into hate,
this takes me to a place where I feel raped, and ravages my soul,
it makes my body shake quiver and ache.

I've given up my world, where no one else would dare,
and in return I receive cold dark stares,
I would barder off my soul, if that's what I had to do,
to make you understand, that I really love you.

---

Even in jail, I haven't seen stronger bars,
this isn't collective,this is self art.
I aspire to be the best rapper, that I know alive,
drops of mixed and mastered perfection, by this spiritual mastermind.
Take what I do, make fun of it if you please,
my spits are antibiotics, eradicating pretenders like a disease.
I beg you to step, at any given time,
whether I'm lost in love, or in a mental institution out of my mind.
I got nine in the family, but only two left,
your inept missteps tell me you can't even count yet,
now there's eight, as I debate, whether my father's death is in store,
as seven is heaven, as I try to act benevolent, but six includes the kid,
who keeps me coming back for more.
Now take five, while I'm alive, but I need one more,
so grab four, ask for more,
but I raised this count til I died.
Three, me, Chantelle and Brittany,
this number includes my kids,
I will give, whatever it is, they need while my body lives.
So grasp two, and while you do, I'll remind you that's the numbers I have left,
now we're one, just for fun,
as I grow down in my age, in my mouth is my thumb,
as I ask to be reborn after my old unborn age as a son.

© Steve Bertrand aka. stevieb 20110811