My Room (Prod. Sabzi)

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 won't 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, I'm fucking thrown/ But I'm Socrates, high philosophies, I'm blunted though/ Do this for my homies that got degrees, but caught the cock and squeeze on their alma mater street coming home/ We weren't 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 ain't 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 fo's prone to hit you/ When your soul gone, homie, know them hoes won't 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 ounce'll 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/ You'll 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 I'm 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 don't pow pow, fakers, tryna sound bout gangsta/ On soundcloud, y'all are clowns like wow how dangerous/ While you're 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 line's an escape from my troubled home/ Take my cards shuffle those, only with a couple flows/