Winding Road - Wrekonize

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

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

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