Down_2_Earth

Walking down the street to the clean beat

Of my feet as they hit the concrete;

There’s a fine little line between a song and the rhyme

That I’m muttering from the lines of thoughts in my mind.

When I’m around you, I can’t help but wonder why;

Why under your gaze I must always lie?

Why whenever I rhyme your face turns the color of lime

And lightning will sizzle and the air will fry?

I’m a lyricist, you’re pissed; I get that alright.

To you, rap is a toe-tapping trap the devil forges at night.

You think I’m a fool, call me a tool; I keep my cool and deny

You any right to take delight in winning this fight.

Everybody has a dream they believe they can achieve,

Mine involves rhyme and I live it all the time, you see.

To you it’s a written crime, but technically

It doesn’t cost a life or a dime, not even a penny.

Why don’t you have faith in me like you do in the Holy Father?

I go to church and pray and read his word,

And if you’d look in my room, you’ll find some Holy Water.

To you, has any of this ever occurred?

Evidently not; you’re still jumping my case

Because I dare to dream and do my own thing.

I can’t tell you what they are, you’d just take and erase

Them like words on a page in a solitary sweep.

Laughing and cackling maniacally at my suffering

From having my feet knocked right out from under me.

Kicked back in your seat, you can see the scene of my tumbling dreams

Coming down while I flounder like a fish taken from the sea.

Looking around at the smoldering remains,

At the shards of broken dreams, I felt a jab of pain,

Not in longing for the dreams, but in pure disbelief;

I just couldn’t believe that my own mother would do this to me.

On my head I should put a sign that says “Under Construction,”

In a daze for days, I was unaware of the destruction

You made until today. Next time, I’ll lie like a pencil on a line

And I’ll keep it secret from your watchful, ever-nagging eyes.

To this very day, I’m still under repair.

I’d tell you how I’m doing, but it’s not like you’d care.

I’ve a gift and you’re miffed because it drifts

In and out of your reach, so you harbor hatred and despair.

How can I forgive you if you’re never there for me?

Where I have a talent, you hold jealousy.

You tell me that I’m stupid for having a dream.

You’re right I am, stupid for thinking you’d encourage me.

(last stanza in comment)