by Micah James

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It's difficult for me to say that I like something--most especially when it's something that I've made--but I like this. I hesitate to call it a mixtape, but not because it is my aim to be so unlike every other rapper in music right now. I just don't think that's what it is. This wasn't as meticulously planned out as a good mixtape should be. There is an air of cohesion here, but nothing really more than a bunch of songs that are decently sequenced. What this is, for the most part, is a business card. A mission statement, rather. It is my hope that y'all get a clearer picture of who it is that I am--mainly in a musical sense, but I suppose personally as well. The music reflected on this demo represents just a few of the swatches of color that I dig on, and the words that I've paired with it is just a glimpse into how I perceive the world, as it perceives me; you'll be privy to more glimpses in the future. Promise.

Be well.



released January 31, 2009

"The Day's Breadth" produced by Bottom Fly ("Riverside Crates", Riverside Crates EP)

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen--nice to finally meet you. The name is Micah James and I'll only need two minutes of your precious time to properly introduce myself to the rest of the world--now watch me get loose. Let's see...where should I start at? First of all, I don't really kick no hard raps. I'm not a gangster, yet and still, I'm a hard act to come up after; the product of a slave and his master's daughter. Coming out the 9-0-9 region, where all my niggas trying to sign the dotted line, believing that they could achieve something much than we had ever hoped for in our lifetime, and I write rhymes until I'm a millionaire, or I use my lifelines and all of that, but trust, I got a plan b for falling back. Word. 'Cause all the rap niggas I looked up to are either wild successful or chillin on the humble. Grew up around guns, drugs and niggas mad thuggish. But also had fun, and love and values of substance. And right there in betwixt that juxtaposition is me, the artist formerly known as "Disposition". I came to give the rap game what they're missing. The missing link, broken nose-sphinx--take a listen. The lost puzzle piece from Poconos to the prisons, for those striking it rich, but struggling with daily living. No maybes, IFs, ANDs or half-stepping, so if you're a thug who blasts weapons, or whether you're a child in school studying math lessons, recognize that it's real.

I got a million people trying to tell me what's real, and how can I trust them, I don't know how to feel. Seems like I'm running fast, but I'm standing still, and still, I don't wanna cry no more.
And I know that I'mma feel a lot better when I wake up today, I'm sleeping on myself, but I'mma wake up and say that "this is the beginning and I'm making my way." I guess I'm just trying to grow.

"Making My Way" produced by Bombay

Nowadays, I fall asleep with the pen clutched, listening to MC Ren, feeling like my nigga King Tut, as I stroll the boulevard with the pimp strut--kinda glad that I missed the bus, but I never miss the boat [nope]. I inhale dreams and exhale hope, computer like word and excel, dope words I spoke to the young children with malleable minds...there's nothing more valuable than time. I'm caught up in the annual decline, they're saying that we're savages and animals and I'm compelled to go and tell it from the tops of all the mountainous peaks, I speak loud, shouting my name out, trying to design a shift in the tide. And I ain't saying I can part the red sea, and I ain't claiming I'm the hardest MC. I'm just a nigga fresher than a stick-o-Dentyne trying to plant that dynamite stick up in your BOOM! Shake, shake the room. They're saying Micah James is the new Will Smith, y'all, the next Fresh Prince, mixed with The Smiths, Prince, plus a sense of the struggle, and up until now I've been the boy inside the bubble. But I stepped out and finally left house, and much to my chagrin I discovered this world is full of puddles. And I was about to head to back to room, but I now it's about time for me to move, so yo, I gotta go.

Making my way, I don't know where I'm going, but I got to be going. I'm just making my way, unsure what I'm doing, but I got to move

"Free Speech" produced by Bombay

Like the clouds I lay up, stay up like the chin of a welter-weight nigga making his way up through the ranks of the golden gloves, take one day at a time upon this mind adventure, pervasive nomenclature from the rhyme inventor. Enter your brain's epicenter with ease, and still spit real rap, nasty, ill, government cheese-style. This here is NOT for niggas in the streets--rocking for my grandmother, dead auntie and my brother locked in a cage. 93,000,000 miles away from the truth, until I realized me and truth was the same exact person. I need a magnifying glass to aide in my search for this new version of life that I'll be living soon. I'm on some outer space ish, but nigga if the moon fits, then sport it, as if it were a pair of Jordans. I'm here recording with my brother Free Speech (, and we speak for the meek and it's timeless. I'm knocking niggas out the box so they can stop thinking inside it, and now rap fans are excited. And who me? I'm delighted, until I get to looking at my bank statement. I'm trying to keep pace in the race, but the game is changing. And the game is change and dollars, so let's awaken their brains and holler at this money, my nigga. I'm so for real, I promise you that!

"Curls" produced by Madlib ("Curls" from Madvillain - Madvillainy)

Kick the flow sick the earl, toxic spit for real MCs and all the girls seem to flock. The game is getting hot, double-fisted Hennesey shot-style, the vivid imagery is nigga-wildforthenight. I'm rampaging like EMPD/LL, on the streets if my CD don't sell well. And my name don't rings bells yet, but I rock them niggas. Camera shy, cover my eyes in all my pictures, but the people say he's so photogenic. Been walking a tight rope all my life, half-white and afrocentric. Crackers looking at me like them birds from the movie Dumbo ("well I be done seen about err'thang"), coons be bugging when they hear me say the "N" word. I interned with Universal Music Distribution--they wouldn't give me loot, so I bounced and now I troopin' on my own two. The independent route for the moment. And I pray for atonement, but at the same time I'm still trying to find an opening into this game for me...I'm honestly conscious, but still concerned with money. And I am the dichotomy of where the game was and here and now where it's gotta be--build and destroy. The gap-bridger, for all non-blacks and niggas, and I ain't saying that we're niggas y'all, it's just a figure of speech. I'm know that I'm the perfect blend mixture, the blue chip recruit, and I used to play hoops back in the days, but I wasn't getting paid, PLUS I couldn't kick the truth to the youth that way, so I had to change my approach. And y'all can keep smoking on your roach, I'm polishing the brooch up, here's some game, just soak up and chill.

Guest vocal: Count Cookie Monster

"Drink One More" produced by Trackmasters ("One More Drink", Ludacris Feat. T-Pain from Theater of The Mind)

Niggas drink Hennessey to give themselves a buzz, like I'm putting out this mixtape to see if I get love. And if it seems like I'm pandering, imagine how maddening it is to be dope and broke and so I shrug my shoulders. They say the world is getting colder, I love Oprah, but she ain't helping me get richer. I tried poker, but didn't have a winning hand and got dogged out like them canines in that picture ( I'm tired of seeing gray skies mister--pessimistic ways I exchanged for the ruby-red slippers. Vodka and ruby red mixed up inside of glass has got my ass on the ground feeling slizzard. Behold the lizard king, Morrison-style, and your girlfriend flashed a nigga more than a smile. Average-ass rappers say they're holdin it down, well fuck that fam--I'm raising it up. [What?] The bar, eyebrows, your mental, the hairs on the end of your forearms, four arms bent like Vishnu. Sitting with the lotus, inside of a club called "Lotus", sipping on my sip, hoping no one notices little ol' me. No kids, but papa to your style, so I figure y'all niggas owe me, so I can go and fill up on 3, and put $30 in the tank, getting Banks like Phillip, on me.

Guest vocal: Bobby (

"Underage Girls Make The World Go Round" ("Peachfuzz" by KMD from Mr. Hood)

Dip-di, socialize and listen to it in HI-FI FIDELITY. Yep, that's double-time, stop telling me. Nope, I'm not a fool. Parker Lewis can't lose when I cruise like Penelope and Tom. Kaczynski mailed me the bomb in my inbox, pissed off R. Kelly with a song called "Underage Girls Make The World Go Round", and if it ain't the pee-pee then it's the poo-poo brown. I'm a cuckoo-clown, crazed, deranged and insane. Watch the birdie. A low-down, dirty shame. What's the verdict? I'm up early digging jazz, pop, funk, prog-rock, electronic and soul. Nowadays, nerdy is en vogue. Kids around the way think that 30 is old. But I suppose the system is designed for lynching, so when you hit 29, you should probably get a pension. Me? I'm just mentioning the facts, my man. I'm at the crib listening to classic Clan: whether X or Wu. Turn it up and catch an exit wound. I used to always want a GS Lexus, blue. Eating vegetables, 'cuz Mommy always told me that, the cotton candy-type phony rap is only good for a little bit, a lil' Wayne is cool, but if I ate lollipops all day, I'd get sick of it. And that's not a diss, 'cuz I think he's fresh, but sometimes I gotta get it off of my chest. Either you hate it or respect it. Relate or reject my perspective. In the tape deck or ejected. Yo, it's just some words I wrote. Trying to broaden up what they call the "urban scope", but are we urban? Nope. Yeah, it's just some words I wrote. It's Micah James, Iceman-George Gervin-dope!

Guest vocal: MJ Famfam, Prince and Larrack "Larry" Obama

"MacDope Pro" ("Bbydhyonchord" by Aphex Twin from Drukqs)

Push the envelope, lick the stamp. Fresh like a eucalyptus plant. You can listen, you can dance, if you want to. Romancing, rap phantom of the opera. Operating, but not like a doctor, I'm more like Midnight Starr. This is an emergency, hopped in the car, but I couldn't park on the dancefloor. Rappers have got glass jaws and they need windex. Big rock in between my thumb and index. Don't worry about who's coming in next. I kris-kross the game, niggas all dyslexed, and they best to remain upon their Ps & Qs, unless they wanna get slain upon the evening news, like: "Film at 11". Severing the Salazar Slytherin snakehead, spitting it vivid as a jpeg image. Hitting you from the line of scrimmage. 110% to make grimace and wince with pain, go back from whence you came and turn purple like Prince's rain. Get it? Y'know, Grimace ( Purple? Ronald McDonald? It all comes circling around the mountain. I "Reel Around The Fountain", MCs should start kneeling and bowing down. I got a sound like the sun in a shroud of clouds. Coming soon to a theatre in a crowded town near you and your folks. Niggers say "dope" and crackers say "stoked". Accolades won't make me change my delivery pitch, I throw my coat on the floor on some chivalry shit. Rappers be joking, riddle me this, riddle me that. Minimum dope, niggas is wack. Children of the corn, lend me an ear. Lightskinned babies, this is our year. I'll be goddamned and Al B. Sure. Audi 5000 like a Saudi tour-of-duty. Rumble like Fish in the movie. Stay humble, stay low, blow like Hootie.

You look like you haven't eaten in a long while. There now is a frown where there used to be a smile, and you used to be as fly as me, but now you're an in-the-meanwhile MC. An overrated, can't freestyle MC. A bragging about selling crack viles MC? So wack that I would rather change the dial MC, and listen to some Father MC-MC.

Guest vocal: Craig Mack

"All Cats Are Grey" ("All Cats Are Grey" by The Cure from Faith)

He was a sugarcane wizard. The nigga had more snow than the great blizzard of 1907. He had a lot of Tevin Campbell CDs, that word to Dave Geffen. Bend the "David Beckham" and inhale the smoke. He regaled us with tales of the murders he wrote. The nightingales sang low in the clouds, while the owls were chilling, playing it cool, you could hear the wolves howl. The nigga pulled out like $70k and put it down on the table, next to the sable. Money from the stables he owned, and such, while his rope-chain cable, excessive truck. He poured cerveza--I wasn't sipping--bumping his lips about a plan that was major. Told me the cash was mine and all I had to do was keep silent and getaway drive. And then he said that I could give it some time and think about it, call him in the morning and then decide. The next day it's ten minutes to 9a, I got the phone and I'm dialing, talking 'bout "yo my nigga, let's ride." It was the simplest crime--at least theoretically: a diamond heist, snatching ice from the mezzanine level of the Trump Tower, it'll be smooth, but if a nigga make a move, hit him with the gun powder. Yo, it's now or never. We go out, well then we go down together, hard as tough leather. Two small security guards are in the courtyard, watching us approach, and me, I smoked up on the looseleaf cigarette, caught an ill feeling. The guard looks back, I'm reaching for the gat. And just when I'm thinking 'bout peeling his cap, he looks at me and says "please no smoking in the building." Damn, that's what's up. It's getting hot, two other rent-a-cops just passed us up. But I don't pay it no mind, ain't no time to hesitate. I move slow, walk over to the "elevate". My man mosied over to the staircase smooth, but I surmise from the look in his eyes he ain't cool. Shook like puss-in-boots, this nigga's weak, probably speak to police and try to cook my goose. But he can get the duck sick for that. Try to hate on me? I'll deflate him like a busted flat. But enough of that for now, move to room 206, bust it down with the judo-kick. "Give me the igloos quick! The rings and the wallabee Clarks. This ain't funny, no comedy, God. Ain't no use in trying to be hard, just give it up, and I'll be in the breeze like 'Pardon me, par'." I heard a sneeze, looked over at the window. This nigga had his seed and I can't kill innocent kinfolk. He must've been ten years old, so I decided to let him go, turned my back and then he shouted out "Uncle Steve" to the nigga standing next to me. Heart frozen, I couldn't believe it was a setup got wet up and pushed down the steps and fell to my agonizing death. Yo.

"Refitted Fragments" produced by Madlib ("Another Batch (Play It Again)" from Beat Konducta, Vol. 6: Dil Withers Suite)

Mic trippin beneath the surface of the earth, I'm skipping rocks, sitting style-Indian. Meridian ante. Microwave entree, unlimited heat raps, unfinished beat stack by my main man Bombay. My homeboy had his little girl, Leilani, bless. I'm listening to Kannie West, like 'this is fresh?' I dipped in depths that most niggas don't float, but still get dissed 'cuz I don't own a big enough boat. I'm biggin' up hope, and PEACE to the rope you're at the end of, picking up the pieces of the shattered glass mirror. Sending my love to Brenda (, she struggled at first, but gave birth to our nieces and the future's realest niggas...I mean KINGS. My old habits die harder. I'm mixed up, word to Lenny Kravitz white father. And the white rabbit's talking like it's time for me to make my exit supreme, in my dreams I see the coffin coming. So please excuse me if I go too fast, and you can sue me, but you'll have a fine time trying to find a dime to grab. Living inside these desperate times, the nerve of some rappers trying to act like they rhyme. Line after line of the same-ol'-same. Puff Combs telling y'all to Press oughta stop. I'm saying, all of y'all autobot niggas. You following the times, trying to swallow clocks quicker. But when the hollow-tip glock bullet looks you in the muzzle, you realize the Joneses can't help you out of trouble. Myself? I got problems of my own that need bursting, in the streets searching, trying to hide the struggles of a person that needs assistance, public and private. Mumbling words to myself, eyelids shut wide. My tribe can touch time, restructure universes. Mind benders. The only caveat is that I gotta find them niggas, so I'm looking into every constellation in the firmament, and every beat I murdered is a step to keep me further from a breakdown.

"Lightskinneded" produced by Jay Dee ("African Rhythms" from Welcome 2 Detroit)

So i was out of my mind one day, while I was walking by a circle of young brothers and all of them were talking about girls, guns, money and drugs, you know, the usual subjects. The unusual suspect was me. And because my skin is ill melanin-deficient they felt that it was irrelevant that this country here is free (not really, but you know what I mean). And I can come and go as I please through any neighborhood without papers stating my daddy is from that neighborhood. One of the little niggas steps up to speak and now I take it, that he has mistaken lightness for weakness. And he ain't wanna make it happen. Knew he was wrong, but that peer pressure be stronger than airplane cabins, sometimes. So he swung and missed, I felt bad and nice as I am, let him off with a slap on the wrist, which really meant a kick to the chest. He was surprised, impressed. Before I left, looked him right in his eyes and said, "I had to take my respect, plus your breath". Then I stepped over him and went about my business, on some EPMD/Parrish Smith-ish, rocking it well, just like my nigga James...Ingram...Seagram's Gin & Juice, cognac, put it in a cup and sip it: new weapons of mass destruction for niggas. And I ain't trying to tell you how to live your life, or what's wrong or right, just remember this world is full of people that like to see you stumbling. In a daze, shoelaces untied to prevent you from finishing this amazing race. Raisin in the blazing heat of the sun, days have wasted away, so give praise, thanks and say your grace. I got this game laced like teddy. Y'know? The undergarment. Not Riley or Ruxpin. Clean cut fade, tuxedo and a brooch pinned down to my lapel, still trying to escape hell, looking for the 7.

"Little Brother" produced by Jay Dee ("Little Brother" by Black Star from The Hurricane OST)

My little brother locked away upstate, but wait, been gone so long I'm forgetting his face. Ayo. And then my other little brothers are 400 miles away, they're chillin' with their mama living out of state. And I don't see none of them as much as I should--I put my faith and all my trust in what's good. Feeling bad, missing dad and I love my little sister, Bria, but this here is for my little brothers, yeah.

Time keeps moving just like it's supposed to, Prince poster on my wall, I'm losing faith like a fallen soldier. Ironic because the icon is now a faithful Witness and I just decided I'm no longer praying to Jehovah. I'm hoping that the Almighty is listening--I'm lashing out to get a reaction because he does not pay attention to me. Why else would he laugh at my silent cries? So in a blood bath, the old Micah died inside. This latest version isn't the greatest person, but he'll do, until I shed some more of my skin and then renew myself, and regenerate. I'm trying to commemorate the shattered fragments of a family that was. If papa was here, he'd say "somebody get me my gun, and fuck the world if they're hitting my son...I'm swinging back on 'em." If I was a braver nigga, I'd be slingin' crack on 'em; a misbehaving nigga, shackles off my back on 'em. But I'm a humble slave, a sliver of a man, drinking liquor out the can and they say...

Little brother, you're looking like you need some help and I replied that I don't need shit but myself. And then my mother said "little one, tell me what ails". I said "nothing", but she knows I'm telling tales. Repelling hell [but] rebuking heaven so I'm assuming the bazooka shells and lightning bolts are coming for my head, and I might be wrong, but I want to be happy these days, and if I can't have that I'd rather be dead.

The tortoise and the hare ran a similar race, the only difference was the tortoise kept a minimum pace. The rabbit was the fastest in chase, but thought he had time to waste, so the nigga fell flat on his face. I use to learn from the fables of Aesop, but I get geeked and yearn to hear the turntables of Pete Rock spinning them cult classics, aka "Ace In The Hole Magic", worth more than woven, golden fabrics. Closed caption for the sound-deficient. I'm pooped from trying to make soup from all the boots that I found fishing in a river full of hopes and dreams. [I'm] impossibly cliche, give props to DJs that keep spinning it. My man said, "one day we'll be winning, kid", but until I'm living it, my mind strays off into the infinite. Yeah, another time, space and joy, and this here is for my baby boys, y'know.

"Dream" produced by Ro Blvd.

The world rotates and revolves at a fast pace. We've all got problems to solve, but if tax breaks and getting money is your only concern, then it seems you've got a lot to learn about running this rat race. Running laps in place, standing still upon the canvas, while I reveal the real, not in theory, but practice. Circumnavigate the atlas, without a map and still reach the masses. To be brief, I get around. Round like a circle, round like the teardrops that fell from my eyes when I saw The Color Purple for the first time. Use my verse lines to reverse minds from the backwards thinking of these cursed times, so we can see the joy in all the elements. I wrote a letter to my brother in jail, ended it off by telling him the goal of life is to see the whole, complete cipher. And then I signed it, "Hold it down, Peace, Micah."

Guest vocal: Bobby, Free Speech & Ro Blvd.

"Searching" produced by Bombay

I'm just searching. Who knows what I'll find and what's lurking in the shadows. Travel at light speed until I see the curtains fall down on my saga. A lifetime full of drama, and all the pain I've seen in my mama's eyes. She cried tears when they took my little brother off to jail, plus [she was] dealing with a marriage that failed. And then I think about him there in his cell and can't wait for him to come home, telling the tales derelicts tell. And I can care less whether this sells, weathering the storm upon my ship, taking better care of my sails. But if my shot clock stops just before I get to make it, just know that I was so close that I could almost taste it. Half of my life got wasted, resting heavily, until I looked deep into my soul and found a better me. Just sketches from my inner mind's portions, now realizing it's takes time for the portrait to be painted. I see the beauty, feeling tainted. It's a think line between arraignments and entertainment, and I've made arrangements, so if my heart stops ticking and my lungs quit breathing I guess we'll finally see that I was human, so my only request is that they play "Travelin' Man" at my funeral--the Mos Def version. Word, submerged in a state of physical exertion, and mental perversions that pervade my day and rain on my parade, leaving my brain dismayed. So, um...I guess the game is gray. Neither black nor white, like trying to feed your children slangin' the yae. And who am I judge? Although, who am I to budge from my position on what's wrong in the world that we're living in? Going insane so I exclaim sexual synonyms like "Fuck it", we all get "screwed", "take it up the behind" and then "get blown", just trying to ease the blues. This is street level news, y'all. Number two volume. Appealing to the voices inside that seem to call you. And all you do is look off into the distance, searching for a piece of yourself you thought was missing, but it's right there inside you. It's up to you to find you. I'm just trying to remind you.

"There's Something Against Us" ("Miserable Lie" by The Smiths from The Smiths)

Can't you see the total picture like Kima, Keisha, Pam? Life is an exam and I think I need to cram because I'm failing. Falling from the sky like Icarus, limbs flailing. Out of breath, inhaling. Van Halen and Joe Clark ( might as well jump, no pumps up in this old broken heart. Grand old harpsichord plays Mozart when I arrive at the pearly gates waiting for the lord. Instead, I saw satan with a sword, telling me to come down to where it's warm. And I followed. Sick of playing role model. Blood red wine and I drank the whole bottle. My brain has been hollow, Ichabod Crane-style; fake smile to mask my pain. And I'll ask again...I prayed up above for game, but all I received was merciless shame. It's worsening my condition, insane, my head splits, so to dance with the darkness, it now makes sense perfect. Cocooned in my room, then I surface, and from the chrysalis emerge as a new person. New version. More in tuned with the senses, but still got the same old glitches...reboot. Something in the water does not compute. I dreamt I hung from a cord, and not the coupe. Woke up next to you, [and] it felt like my neck was bruised. You asked me if all was well, and so I started to describe my sleep and what was in it. I painted it vivid and talked for five minutes or more, but stopped when you snored out loud and laid back down, damn what a bore. Sometimes I really do think I'm happy, because misery loves company and I'm so alone/useless. Too much hubris to pick up the phone and tell somebody that I need, or tell you how I really feel about you. At war with the angels and the demons. Unsure what this life will amount to.

"Agoraphobia" produced by Micah James

my daddy died, i never been outside, it's even less likely since he took that caddy ride. but no woe is me, i brought this on myself, the people that i love, i put them on the shelf and i used to pray to God to save me from this sick fascination with macabre, but now i'm closer to dance with satan. Gun tucked in my elastic waste band like fuck,
jewelry chunky like what, i ain't scared to stuck, my bad, been listening to the crime manifestos, rhyme mafioso in lines described by esco, but that is not my life, i've never been in one fight, frightened by my own shadow in the sunlight, once Michael had told me that i need to be a boss, i replied my life feels like i've been working at ross, bad health, self-worth-a-less God, some say superlative shit i spit, so why am i still working this hard to get attention from superfluous frauds that ain't listening? if this is for the love then there is no competition, but this is for the uh, not for the uh, stop and drop it like uh, for them dollar signs huh? yeah that's what i thought, there's dollars to be made, niggas making the grade, selling they souls to get them As and B pluses that you see on their report card, also known as record
reviews, like how did dude get them four stars? fuck rolling stone, word to my brother up north, of course, unless they wanna put me on the cover. that's why i don't be judging the next man, i'd prefer to take a stand, but lately i've been on the verge of budging. my mixtape murders big budget conceit, but without big buzz in the streets, i'm hopeless. i might as well be hanging with cousins tree-smoking
or living with my mama just because it's free, focus, breathe, remember: be the lotus. i'm talking in my head, needing pep talks to get up outta bed, just to go outside the house, i'm tired of living shrouded in doubt. [this is] truly a lesson learned in what drowning's about. but please don't ever count me out, nigga don't clown and doubt me, i'm coming out the ground swinging free. closer than ever to being me, hoping that i was better than what i never thought i would be.

"The Rain" produced by Ro Blvd.

the raindrops penetrate the ground beneath my feet, as i move in the streets trying to not slide and slip. i'm frightened a bit, but in my defense, the thunder and lightning provided the nighttime with Dramatic (get it? The Dramatics? no? k) twist. so i scattered the tips of blunt residue ashes. i don't smoke it, but it was in the pocket of this jacket i had borrowed from my nigga, and hopefully tomorrow will be clearer, but for now the ground is like a mirror, and i can see the moon's reflection next to my toes--the ill crescent--pulling me into the night. it feels destined. it's like the rain is talking to my soul, it's amazing. it sounds crazy. you'd say i'm crazy, but i don't even wipe my face, instead i open up my mouth to taste what's real amidst the fake. something of substance, but now all my vision is hazy. yo, i think i'm going crazy.

back to the realistic. realizing i'm drenched with rain, snap back into brain and now i'm pissed and upset, i hear the pistons and the fuel injection of my ride as i slide the key into the ignition and jet. and now it's like i'm feeling perplexed because i'm anxious and feel a slight itch near the back of my neck. a small voice faintly telling me to stay, telling me to lay low for the evening, but [it seems] i never make the correct decision. you'd think that i was listening to "little red corvette" up in my ten disc changer. i'm driving fast like i need anger management class, take a left to pass this lady applying her makeup. and the street is so slick that i slip, i'm trying to get a grip of the steering wheel, now i'm hearing bells and whistles and sirens. the ambulance coming and i'm trying to stay awake, [but] diving, falling face first into silence. and then nothing, step to a blank canvas. removed from the world's atlas, i'm feeling like alice. i'm moving through the looking glasses dazed, but it still doesn't phase me. it sounds crazy. and i know i'm not dreaming, but i know i can't be seeing what i'm seeing. no need for my feet because i'm floating through the wide open spaces, hoping that nobody tries to save me. i'm going crazy.

no longer feeling calm, i leave my fantasy world transported to a new destination with some needles in my arm and pumping on my chest for the resuscitation. it takes all my breath to say "somebody call my moms and my pops." surrounded by the firefighters, cops and the general public, all discussing my faith. the only thing left to do is trust in my faith. i'm flashing back to the moments that i was hovering in space. but now a nigga's covering my face, i guess i gone. damn. i ain't even get to write my novel "The Life And Times of The Boy Inside The Glass Bottle". it was a work in progress i had said i'd start tomorrow. but now tomorrow's gone, yet i don't feel hollow. i feel complete, [for] my mother kissed my cheek. and now i can fly, i touch heaven's eyes with just enough force to make the firmament cry and now it's raining.

"Rainy Dayz (Remix) (Remix)" (Raekwon Feat. Ghostface Killah "Rainy Dayz (Remix)" originally from Only Built 4 Cuban Linx...)

On rainy days i sit back and listen to the purple tape. I'm trying to theorize the crime and the murder rates increasing. Thinking of a way for me to illustrate my thoughts, visualizing Ghostface's golden [Versace] dinner plate. It's better than a spinner-chain. It symbolizes food, hunger, plus it demonstrates the different ways that we creatively can entertain and get flashy, but still remember niggas slain. 'Cuz we ain't ignorant into this game, we know from whence the devil came, but the evil root is scented sugar cane. Feeding the sweet tooth until it hurts and then decays. And all the media reports would seem to that we are imbeciles, but if we're fools, then why the whole world be trying to imitate? It's kinda like my nigga say: 'cuz all them niggas wanna be a nigga for a day. They looking swift, fresh dance moves, talking slang. But when they're done with the culture they can walk away. They see the cops in the rear view, they're pulling out the ZZ Top, trying to hide that old "Chief Rocka" ( tape, and so we gotta stay Lords of The Underground and God is great. And we'll emerge, and if not today, then soon, my people can't bloom while the skies are grey. And so I hope the heavens cry and it starts to rain, and let the love from the sun wash away the pain. Just let it rain.

Guest vocal: Raekwon & Ghostface Killah




Micah James Los Angeles, California

Songs about love, depravity and personal management

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