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.