When I was eighteen I found I had a potential and if I continued to grow it I could make a grand differential. Words fall from my mouth with rhythmic precision; one beat spawns the next like cellular division. Others waste their talents on clubs and pole dancers, spread around filth, give the genre cancer. What we need is a lyrical revival, a renaissance of words. Golden ideals from a silver tongue are mightier than any sword.
Where on the right path with Eminem’s “Stan,” and Macklemore raps about homosexuality, a man loving another man. But Leo and Michael weren’t the only artists in the 15th century, and I want a chance to add my own master piece.
I’d start in a garage with an off brand beat maker with loose knobs and a broken shaker. I’d release an album, half fun, half serious. My parents would laugh and say “You’re delirious.” I wouldn’t sign a label, or any contract on a table. That way my music would be pure and to this corruption it could be a cure.
I’d tackle mass depression, a disease that makes a bad impression. It range is huge, consuming three hundred fifty million. A lot don’t see a way out and when they need to fight to live they become unwilling. They need to know suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and that after their sorrow a beautiful life will blossom.