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about

Depression

lyrics

Them crowds don't form when you stray from the norm/
And I'm on some other shit with arms, Baraka blades... and corn/
Occasionally the goonies will surface from the selves to give you dap as I adapt to the truth "Even wood floors will stop creaking to rep for those who'll never see it"/
Lets get down to brass tacks: most of us will never reach our dreams. It'll be under our bed, next our graduation shoes, losing steam/
So I wear this mask, luchador, mecha, true to from SKECHer/
Working the angle with an angel on my shoulder that taught me to strangle the earths corners/
Lurch grip death merchant perched to service the mourners of "Real Hip Hop"/
Heres a warning: if your Field of Dreams has locust don't bother/
That's because the sons are focused on not baring the sins of their fathers/
Remember everyone wants to be the sheepard tomorrow because even the hiding wolf has to follow/
So let the naysayers hack and cough, the scenester lipsmack and yawn while I develope the strength to stab critics to death with a basketball/
To heckles futile like Magneto in a plastic cell, in vacuum hell pumping heavy metal to make laughter dispell/
Spell that with an iron E (irony = i.e.). You can giggle now/
Can I kick it? Stop lying to me!/
I don't sleep I keep the moon not hawking/
Plotting with other Darkstalkers to siezel the moment in installment/
Parchment piety, separation anxiety shrink wrapped/
The Pseidon of saliva science/
Scene slipping... now think back/
Was there ever a time when the underdog shared your shadow but battled to keep the viewer from changing the channel?/
Motherfucker I speak that/

I'm SKECH. I'm a worm in the dirt so I'm King?
For what it's worth, my verse kills the early bird
Because I'm one man spitting
One word.One life.One dream. Listen!
One goal. One verse.One person spitting!
One Life. One mission. One time listen!


I'm just a cracked statue with a perfect mold I'll never fit/
Knowing that Heaven is the moment when every thing makes sense… I sit imprisoned in my intention/
Trying to suspend this second as Death caresses the calendar with porcelain hands narrowing down my what ifs/
And I'm just… a color on the wing of a dragon fly/
I'm just… a branch of a family tree that looks more like a cotton plant:
* Flat
* Rigid
* Mums the word children
* Parents who half listen
* Former stifled hell raisers
* Born again Christians
* Crack binges
* A cracked system with a success tournament more like a tourniquet
* Don't ask, if its religious, march like Nazi's till told what your concern is with

I realized the powers that be kill where the real lies (lays)/
Blinds the best of us with the rest of 'til we don't believe our real eyes/
Set us up with a place in the sun that we defend with our real lies/
And I refuse, so I only start oratories with real "I's"/
That's the illest speech grown from concrete felt by a million feet/
From time to time my boy calls to remind me of how buildings weeps/
Cites cracks as tears and how tiers stand strong when the steel is weak/
I say "word" hold my head and hope this elevator music don't get to me/
I'm Skech185 motherfucker, Shanta's little brother/
The on that left 7 ate and made 9th wonder/
That "back-in-the-day" kid that got booed and sent home for days/
But he's back, and slicing opponents to death with their shoulder blades/
The self-made lunatic Nubian fighting for mark making/
Museless musician confusing the children with stark, sharp, shark statements/

credits

from Analog​(​ue) Tape Dispenser SKECH185 : New Age Middle Finger, released March 1, 2011
Produced by Choir
Written by SKECH185

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SKECH185 Brooklyn, New York

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