Hook: It's the hi's. The lows. They real bumpy roads. Tryna get inside but the doors stay closed. People live and die by mistakes they chose, so beats stay pathways straight to their souls. On a hi-hat, a finger print from a felon. Identity found through percussion. Identifies with the fatherless. His eyes closed, banging out the rhythm sounding so marvelous. See him draw from a special reservoir. But they don't hear, the deeper language, in the snare, talk about he tough road that got him there. They clap. They Clap. They Clap. But they not aware. Yo! It's beautiful to live life and pass jokes. But for some, they like Coltrane hitting half notes. And his approach to percussion was max roach. Improvised like Archie Shepp fresh off of impulse. Fighting his ghost: inclines and slopes, plateau's and peaks. tryna reach find hoes in jeeps--facing a test, knowin' soon the wine flows. Not the perfect intonation. But he's so in tune because he's facing. Hook: The hi's. The lows. The real bumpy roads. Tryna get inside but the doors stay closed. People stay stuck with mistakes they chose, so beats stay pathways straight to their souls. Music is the place where I can document my yesterdays, so I live and die through a phrase. Lost in my own world--close my eyes to give it night. A dark field in Florida blows pages of Richard Wright. A young man I am again smiling with delight. Slowly understanding wrong and right. There was the okra that need to be picked. There was the impossible stack of wood that had to be split There was the confrontational scent... of bacon... that forced me underneath the covers hiding from a day that's waiting. There was the late-night fight with mosquitoes that lust for me. There was the orange glow from a microwave considered a luxury. There was the antagonism from the tenacious bumble bee. There was the lack of patience after church when sister Johnson tried to snuggle me. There was the four hour walks for a single grocery. There was the Brooksville nights, with no lights, so dark everything looked still. There was the disappointing yell, ceasing my afternoon free time. There was the Sunday sessions of creasing all of my jeans. There was the older cousins, I had windows to my teens. There was those who/ came before, lighting up the path with high beams. There was old school/ music played on Saturday clean ups. There was my lost innocence and now I'm lusting C-cups. Looking back on this odyssey of mine, with sobriety of mind, most things I thought true, I gotta redefine--another curveball. Life be throwing those. It's no grander. I magnify mistakes with the flanger. Some distortion, but my souls exposed, every part of it. And I'm not afraid of what it shows. Hook: No mobility. Cats tryna be moguls. Servants watching nobles. Dreams of excalibur, wide eyes watching Pro Tools. Good squires circle they cook fires, tough faces holding pots and pans--role reversals. Ambitions are bridal plans, different sides of the globe all facing the same challenge. The same dreams all passing the same chalice. Tryna trace my history right back to kings. Well. I know it's not Henry the 5th, tryna break out this labyrinth. . .with Hook.