70 lines max.
Due Monday, the 13th, 11:59pm.
You pick topic.
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70 lines max.
Due Monday, the 13th, 11:59pm.
You pick topic.
https://keithdotson.com/cdn/shop/pro...g?v=1575931784
I connect a drum kit with saxophone, add some keys for harmony,
tie in a raw sample on the chorus that'll leave you on the swing.
For the kids on the street and the suits watching from their suite,
I produce the dream for small roots that'll bloom from the seeds.
Beneath the Chicago sunbeams and in-between icy blizzards,
hidden from tornadoes and the unpredictability of dicey triggers.
I start writing scriptures that'll paint mausoleums in your mind,
carpe diem on the fly, lyrics so smooth you see em with your eyes.
I got this mixtape for the grind, people rewind and replay all the time,
til they can't see straight from the rhymes, play keepsake in my prime.
Gotta opportunity coming up that'll see me flying through the sky,
to the City of Angels where I'll shine, just a homeboy reppin the Chi.
They say they can't dare to see me go, so they'll sign me as an artist,
I've been working my hardest and now I get to thrive from the harvest.
I can see my albums on the market, explicit advertisement at Target,
and my momma can sit comfortably from her mansion in Harlem.
Or maybe Jamaica. Paris. Italy or Peru. They'll roll out the red carpet,
with Roc A Fella, I'll rise through the lights and forget where I started.
The plane lands at LAX, this beat, a mainstay as I flex schemes on the jet,
I can see a limousine with a driver holding a sign that reads "Mr. West."
Thus the dream that I've stressed becomes a reality as I stretch,
all those tracks I mixed for lyricists on the radio, MTV and movie sets.
Finally, I'm the frontman, cruising through Hollywood like a star,
with a journal full of hits that are ready for the charts.
We reach the studio and a man meets me at the ride,
"Welcome, Mr. West, Mr. Dash is waiting inside."
I walk through the hall as gold and diamond records cover the walls,
Jay Z, Memphis Bleek, and Beanie Sigel, portraits, plaques, I'm in awe.
"Hey Kanye, we're ready whenever you are, get into the booth."
The high begins to bruise, as I walk into the room, a sweat produced.
I put the headphones on and clear my throat, an instrumental rose,
and as I start to flow the beat abruptly froze. "Try again, you were a little slow."
I can feel my brittle ego begin it's fickle fall, that sweat trickles off,
multiple attempts restarted by judgemental sods, I drop a simple nod.
From a gentle God to a sinful fool, I step outside to reset,
"tomorrow's another day, bro." "Y'all have a rental? I need some time to compress."
Dame tosses me some keys, a nice Lexus blessed with a clean coat,
"I'm sorry if I seem mean, bro, I'm just a perfectionist and I know my schemes flow."
"It's 3AM, don't worry, get some sleep and we'll try again tomorrow."
I start the ignition and the pistons begin shiftin as my tension grows hollow.
Halfway to the hotel, I can feel my eyes slippin, my visions a blur,
driven off the road and the rest is a series of images conjured.
I wake up in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center with my mouth wired,
still tired from the near death experience, my whole body's on fire.
Dame walks in, "THANK GOD you're awake, we were worried about you, Ye.
Take all the time that you need to recover, everything is on the label, it's okay."
I shake my head and signal for paper and pen, he slides them over to me,
with a twitchy signature, I write "JUST GIMME TWO WEEKS."
Two weeks later, I'm on the mic, fueled by the event that transpired,
and I had them with one line ... "Make music that's fire, spit my soul through the wire."
Everything I Am
https://64.media.tumblr.com/7bb4a82e...415b873631.jpg
never spoke much as a child. Always assumed the audience would start laughing.
Such a hard bargain at four years old, with a developed ambition to wanna start rapping.
“Tell not a damn soul the dream you manifested”… Not that the thought ever passed me.
Mixed reactions met with audible gasping, though a mother should love her child and want them to be happy.
The sonogram showed a little boy in the summer of 1999, heart beat tapping, sonically satisfactory.
Years turn to days, with gazes that turn gaunt, visions that still haunt and attack me.
Outside influences distracting. Similar remarks to “Why aren’t you more like your older brother Zachary?”
Though I could have been a soldier, horns blast in the distance, very similar to those I think rap should consist of.
Finically reach for my pad where ten year old raps sit to this day. Tears simmer & begin to drip from my face,
reflecting on simpler days, struggling to flip the page. I feel the comfort from snares and drum loops,
as well as the potential I pissed away. Conflicted, should I drift away from this wicked game?
Or use a pen to inflict my rage, and begin to form scriptures administered from pain. I……
Still feel ugly inside. Little to no self belief, even though every multisyllabic scheme helps to release.
Was it all a dream, or am I seldom to those who watch over me. The watch tower’s clock ticks slowly for
every opened beat I looked over… all bark with no receipts. Often find myself, dreaming up punchlines
to settle scores over simplistic rhythms that fizzle to never more. Thinking of the girl I could never have,
& end up describing her on message boards with visual metaphors. I say farewell to those
who’ve lent a hand, and greetings to those that manipulated my kindness. I just want to be accepted,
and to be fully aware that my penmanship is greater than anything i have set to accomplish.
My favorites:
Beneath the Chicago sunbeams and in-between icy blizzards,
hidden from tornadoes and the unpredictability of dicey triggers.
I start writing scriptures that'll paint mausoleums in your mind,
carpe diem on the fly, lyrics so smooth you see em with your eyes.
They say they can't dare to see me go, so they'll sign me as an artist,
I've been working my hardest and now I get to thrive from the harvest.
I can see my albums on the market, explicit advertisement at Target,
and my momma can sit comfortably from her mansion in Harlem.
Or maybe Jamaica. Paris. Italy or Peru. They'll roll out the red carpet,
with Roc A Fella, I'll rise through the lights and forget where I started.
I put the headphones on and clear my throat, an instrumental rose,
and as I start to flow the beat abruptly froze. "Try again, you were a little slow."
I can feel my brittle ego begin it's fickle fall, that sweat trickles off,
multiple attempts restarted by judgemental sods, I drop a simple nod.
From a gentle God to a sinful fool, I step outside to reset,
"tomorrow's another day, bro." "Y'all have a rental? I need some time to compress."
Dame tosses me some keys, a nice Lexus blessed with a clean coat,
"I'm sorry if I seem mean, bro, I'm just a perfectionist and I know my schemes flow."
"It's 3AM, don't worry, get some sleep and we'll try again tomorrow."
I start the ignition and the pistons begin shiftin as my tension grows hollow.
I wake up in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center with my mouth wired,
still tired from the near death experience, my whole body's on fire.
I shake my head and signal for paper and pen, he slides them over to me,
with a twitchy signature, I write "JUST GIMME TWO WEEKS."
Two weeks later, I'm on the mic, fueled by the event that transpired,
and I had them with one line ... "Make music that's fire, spit my soul through the wire."
vs
never spoke much as a child. Always assumed the audience would start laughing.
Such a hard bargain at four years old, with a developed ambition to wanna start rapping.
The sonogram showed a little boy in the summer of 1999, heart beat tapping, sonically satisfactory.
Years turn to days, with gazes that turn gaunt, visions that still haunt and attack me.
Outside influences distracting. Similar remarks to “Why aren’t you more like your older brother Zachary?”
Finically reach for my pad where ten year old raps sit to this day. Tears simmer & begin to drip from my face,
reflecting on simpler days, struggling to flip the page. I feel the comfort from snares and drum loops,
as well as the potential I pissed away. Conflicted, should I drift away from this wicked game?
Often find myself, dreaming up punchlines to settle scores over simplistic rhythms that fizzle to never more. Thinking of the girl I could never have, & end up describing her on message boards with visual metaphors.
This was a long read, and I think that ultimately hurts the number of responses you will get. I would suggest shorter events so that you get the feedback you need to continue to grow.
Soule you can tell you are a seasoned writer.
Lenox you need more work on your structure/composition/flow.
However BOTH of you are extremely good at evoking emotion, and it was a pleasure to read. Have to go with Soule here, but I thoroughly enjoyed reading from both of you. Good shit.
I had a whole break down and lost it . And this is wack but I’m just going to wrap it quickly here bc I don’t feel like going through the whole break down again.
Soule had the better overall verse , delivered his idea better I thought. Imagery , rhyme scheme vocabulary , just overal writing was better . Lenox was actually decent , enjoyed your piece as well, I’m pretty sure this was your first topical , snd it was actually a pretty good read.
Again sorry for the nonsense break down,
Vote soule overall better piece
winner soule
i tried reading this 12 times
every time something came up or i faded out
finally finished reading
this was good on both sides
i thought soule was a little more descriptive
and had a tighter flow
lenox was good also but there was a difference
you can tell soule has been doing this'
thats why he gets my vote
I win.
U need 5 around here to get the winQuote:
Originally Posted by Soule
Good luck getting five votes on a topical battle. There's a reason we switched it to 3.
Good job to both. Felt Lenox was a bit better
Vote Lenox
You're a bitch.
Good lord that’s a read. My ADHD was tripping. I’ll try to keep my Chicago bias to a minimum lol..
“ Beneath the Chicago sunbeams and in-between icy blizzards,
hidden from tornadoes and the unpredictability of dicey triggers.
I start writing scriptures that'll paint mausoleums in your mind,
carpe diem on the fly, lyrics so smooth you see em with your eyes.”
Really liked this segment.
“ Halfway to the hotel, I can feel my eyes slippin, my visions a blur,
driven off the road and the rest is a series of images conjured.
I wake up in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center with my mouth wired,
still tired from the near death experience, my whole body's on fire”
Felt this hard . Been there , done that.. lol
Very well written. Very descriptive.
Vote soule..
Lennox did quite well also broski.
4-1 soule
Imma give this another week for votes then close it
Soule wins