Prompt / Lyrics
The turning back begins, a rewind of the script, not erasing the ink, but changing the direction of the flow. We unwrite the old rules, not by tearing the parchment, but by reading backward, from consequence to intent. The effect on the lone walker, the one who paces concrete canyons, that stillness now dictates the clause, the quiet in the asphalt echo. Laws designed from the bruise, the visible scar left on the pavement, not from the lofty chamber, but the lived experience of the curb. These inactive figures on the street, the forgotten shapes leaning against walls, their inertia becomes the gravity point, the new center of legislation. And the yard, the designated space, a patch of green cordoned off, where the giving happens, a tangible exchange, a silent receipt. To keep the spirit of the law out there, in the grit and the rush, means pulling it back, retrieving what was shed onto the rough ground, and placing it squarely on the proper soil. Attaching the personal scribbles, the private errors etched in the ledger of being, to these freshly minted bylaws, a tethering of the self to the structure. This is not just for the whole town, the collective breath we share, but for the designated group, the ones who see in shades of red, a specific palette for compliance. It feels like a clever turn, doesn't it, this intricate netting, a manipulative comfort for every other hand reaching, a gain spun from necessary loss. And what was claimed, what was lifted, that intangible weight, it was always the essential four, the framework only they perceive. He watches the reversal, the slow, deliberate undoing, and in his mind, the construction solidifies, believing this borrowed structure is his own making, a necessary scaffold for his solitary throne. The street breathes differently now, constrained by the shape of its own stillness, the yard holds the offering, and the writer is bound by the very words he tried to outrun.
Tags
rap, trap soul, trap i08
Duration
3:06
Instrumental
No
Created
2/25/2026