ON TRIAL FOR MY LYRICS

TITLE: ON TRIAL FOR MY LYRICS

Prosecutor read my rhymes like “exhibit A: pain,”

Judge bang gavel on the beat, say I’m sick in the brain.

Jury lookin’ at my pen like a criminal tool,

But every line that they fear got me free from they rules.

“Ladies and gentlemen, look, this is all right here,

He confess to every wound, every vice, every fear.

Talks death, talks stress, talks rage in his songs,

He’s a threat to the peace, put his art where it belongs.”

They pull quotes off the page with they gloves on tight,

Play my worst 8 bars in the coldest light.

“Listen how he glorify the dark,” they claim,

While they skip every line where I spell my shame.

They don’t hear the context, just the cut and paste,

Turn my whole life’s story to a dirty case.

Hold my metaphors up like fingerprints,

Tryna prove that my truth is a crime on print.

Prosecutor read my rhymes like “exhibit A: pain,”

Judge bang gavel on the beat, say I’m sick in the brain.

Jury lookin’ at my pen like a criminal tool,

But every line that they fear got me free from they rules.

“Your honor, if it please the court, let me speak on this ink,

Every bar they call a weapon was a lifeboat, think.

They see violence in the verse, I see scars get named,

They see chaos in the rhyme, I see order in pain.

I never told ‘em ‘go do it,’ I just told ‘em what’s real,

Took the weight off my chest, put it under the steel.

You call that dangerous? cool, but compare it to what:

Kids bleed in the street while the news stay shut.

If my lyrics on trial, then the block should be too,

Then the past, then the landlords, then the ones we outgrew.

You can lock up this pad, you can ban this track,

But the story that I’m telling still gon’ fight back.”

I ain’t plead nothin’ but “guilty of truth,” no less,

If they sentence my art, that just prove the mess.

Prosecutor read my rhymes like “exhibit A: pain,”

Judge bang gavel on the beat, say I’m sick in the brain.

Jury lookin’ at my pen like a criminal tool,

But every line that they fear got me free from they rules.

Jury go to deliberation in they own two ears,

Every listener decide what they do with my fears.

One say “too much,” one say “nah, that’s me,”

One press skip, one press play, feel free.

If I’m guilty of anything, it’s refusal to mask,

I put blood on the page, y’all prefer pretty glass.

You can call me convicted, I’ll call it a win,

If one lost mind find theyself in my din.

So stamp “case closed” on the file with my name,

I’ll appeal every day with a new 16 flame.

Court adjourned, beat fade, but the truth still stick—

Cold Verse on trial, but the verdict is this:

You can chain up the body, you can censor the clip,

But you never stop a story once it slip through the lip.

Court adjourned. Case closed on the record—but every time you press play, I’m still testifying on this beat.