talk

I keep my circle tight—that’s math, trust, and a radius,

If I cut you off, it’s surgical, silent, and painless,

I’m drawing lines—not coke, but boundaries and sentences,

Cross one and you’ll feel the weight of my punctuation emphasis.

I got keys—piano, passwords, and leverage,

Still play the block like a chord, every note got a predicate,

I was locked in—focus or prison mentality,

Either way I learned structure from bars and reality.

I let the pen spin—that’s rotation or plot twist,

Still land every point—needle, argument, or compass,

I keep it 100—percent, temperature, honesty,

If I’m cold with the truth, it’s a forecast of prophecy.

I got stock in my words—invested or inventory,

Still raise the ceiling—roof talk or territory,

I been down before—depressed or underground,

Now I flip every low to a frequency louder than sound.

I’m on a different wave—haircut, signal, or motion,

If I surf on a beat, that’s emotion in ocean proportions,

I don’t chase clout—clouds or attention span,

I let the pressure build till it rain on the plans.

I keep my foot on their neck—that’s dominance, posture, or breath,

Still toe the line—moral, legal, or edge of the step,

I got bodies of work—albums or evidence stacked,

If the case ever open, my discography facts.