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There comes a time when I crave Azealia Banks, a bit of flavor and thrust, hearts on the stake. Reality struck, I’m hard on double takes. I look again at a struggle, the impact some people place. Their hands are ever laced onto a throne’s arms. They rest in vain. Cannot look beyond the hate. Divide and not relate. So even though they spit bars hard as hell, I’m not about to lay shit I don’t believe on my shelf. Then I look back to the hip hop stars I’ve held up high, the ones I’ve let go and the ones I keep inside. Shit is never perfect and humans learn in stride. I fuck up every day and these artists, well, music never dies and lyrics can keep on creating broken lines so generations keep sighing. That shit was just a place in time, now it burns. The cycle churns. I support the cause of undermining someone’s worth by way of lines written rushed in a verse or manipulated by the curse: fame on top, unity on standby. Survival of the sickest, the richest then become blind. Support is an endeavor for growth and to stay alive. What are your lines worth? Beats aside.
I’m a feminist hip hop head and stressing it,
the feminist part cus I’m a woman.
Hear me blessing it with my flow.
Each piece of the phrase, each taste of the dough.
Hey bystanders! Here me roar then overthrow
but you are not innocent. Silence doesn’t make it so.
It allows for those who don’t know to absorb.
See I don’t live my life to hip hop lyrics.
It’s tough to nod to music dipped in misogynism.
Throwback – I’m sick of hearing some words without hearing.
Disrespect is pervasive. “Doesn’t mean I’m with the scheming.”
They poke. Well I dissect cus opinions spewed are contradictory yet.
Talking bout hoes when hoes is what they get
cus no self-respecting person stays with a self-dismissing breath,
repeated without depth, mimicry with each step
when truly hip hop is based on innovation
& what more we can do when idolizing generations.
Walls for protection turn into walls for demolition.
Watch the splinters of wood sprung and splattered.
It cuts. It breathes. It becomes a diffused matter
It riddles our beings with shit that doesn’t matter,
like pleasing just to please, barter dignity for banter.
I mean pussy for slander. We are not one dimensional panderers.
*Some say if bitches and hoes exist,
there’s validity in the flick of the wrist,
the violent content, the character script.
I’m still not down for the lines u spit
copying aged content not growing for shit,
cus see that’s mimic, not art.
That’s follow, not start.
Not delivering your part to add to Hip Hop.
See this is just a piece, a poem, to discuss language of the art I call home.
And yes, it transcends, but this rift is just getting old.
I got love for classics but my condition is growth.
I’m a feminist hip hop head and this is what I know.