Winding Road

[Verse 1] Tie an army to your bootstraps, coffee in your cup Walking with an ancient boombap, screaming What the fuck In 2009 critics line is net form and kids want fans before they even sweat for em Forced into a basement that's baking in the sun With million other vagrants, they pay us just to run See, planet earth's a treadmill, I'm tryna get my gun Before they drop flights and stop air travel to my lungs Dial an operator, got a problem with the matrix Tired of being overlooked because we never say shit Some might even go as far to say I lack passion That's probably because I stowed it on a friendship that's crashing Asking for a little respect and ration While we get the lashing for seeking compassion I once begged to use Compuserve as a teen Yesterday I saw a murder on my computer screen You see, fads and phases have swept the ages Turning real places into a digital day trip The basic nature is a devilish component That forces us to capture the moment, and own it [Hook] But have you ever reached out on your own For a dream that you could hold? Looked 'round at what was going down Seemed just out of control And if you ever looked down deep inside but couldn't even find a soul Then you know that this Truman show is like stumbling down a winding road [Verse 2] Got friends having kids in a world that don't support them Picking up the paper, point of view is post-mortem Each breath's a gift, wrapped in all kinds of boredom So I contort them, then deport them in the morning Exhale, flying through a tunnel with a set sail Playing Miami heat and hope to God that I don't get hail Feeling the blues because my hip hop mood is just not true I'm lost, which door do I choose? One side is underground hip hop fans Too stubborn to raise his hands or support sound scams The other side is Nickelodeon Teenie-Bopping Jonases Where you make popcorn with some big fucking bonuses But it's too late, I left my theater camp And plus I cheer for a chance to leave your ear in a slant Putting me inside a Strange lame-brain purgatory Where I can't go back to basement, so move the further stories Unbe-fucking-lievable, flesh wound is bleeding through test tubes And needles to get through; what's eating you? My view is retro, Motown switched around Type of shit to make you say, "Bitch, get down," like you're Chris Brown I'd love some pot money but the rules are domestic Making independent moves that fill your groove with asbestos So here we are, locked late and top shape Breaking my cuffs, still stuck between a rock and a hard place [Hook]