Back Row

Yeah, I came from the back row, desk full of dreams,

Teachers talk but I’m locked in my schemes,

Notebook full of bars, not a single excuse,

Every line I write feel ready to shoot.

Bell ring loud but I don’t clock out,

While they rush for the door, I’m mapping my route,

Late nights, cheap beats, headphones cracked,

Still every word I spit hit harder than that.

I ain’t skip class, I skip limits,

While they copy answers, I’m writing my minutes,

Every failure just sharpened the pen,

Now I’m passing these levels again and again.

They laugh in the hallway, I walk through the noise,

Mind on a stage, not a locker of toys,

Dreams in my chest beating louder than fear,

Every step that I take make the future more clear.

I been hungry for more than a grade on a sheet,

I want my name on a crowd when they screaming to me,

From chalk dust floors to a world that’s wide,

I’m building something I refuse to hide.

Yeah, they doubt when you quiet, they hate when you loud,

But I keep writing heat till I’m shaking the ground,

One verse at a time, I’m breaking that mold,

Turning small-town thoughts into stories of gold.

I don’t need shortcuts, I trust in the grind,

Every page in this book got a piece of my mind,

So when the final bell rings and the lights go low,

I’ll still be here making something they know.

From the back of the class to the front of the game,

I’m not just chasing a check — I’m chasing a name.