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My world wasn't born in green but in the soul of a crooked street
where violence played tricks on me in the mind like those ghetto boys I knew
who spit truth for the world to hear but called it non-sense rap cause they weren't from that crooked street
For in my world, if a ghetto child finds love we call it "rhythm"
where our hearts can stop fearing the gun shots and sirens to just dreaming of a safe haven one beauty can provide
We call it a symphony..
Since those in greens won't let us survive, scratch our imagination like a old record player..
Called us Funk Master Flash cause we were to close of the past of what used to be beautiful...but making sense is no longer the song
So in my world, we rap through words only acapella for our music is the reality we see everyday
We call it poetry...but They Don't Hear Us Though
