[Intro – Spoken Word Style]
Yeah…
It used to heal, now it harms.
Used to teach, now it traps.
It ain’t the rhythm —
It’s the message in the map.
[Verse 1]
They used to spit scriptures with soul in the stanza,
Now they load clips in the bars like it’s cancer.
Youth got a soundtrack that bangs like a hammer,
But the wisdom is gone, just the glamour and grammar.
No lessons in pain, just confessions in vain,
Got ‘em flexin’ for fame while they wrestle with chains.
Back when Pac cried out for the babies and mamas,
Now it’s ops, Glocks, and a playlist of trauma.
Every line a landmine, they step and explode,
Don’t even know that the code got ’em stuck in a mode.
They mimick the lyrics, they mimic the drill,
But ain’t no reset when you play it for real.
How you tell a young boy, “Get it how you live,”
When all he sees is death in the life that you give?
You poison the airwaves and profit from pain,
Then wonder why the streets start soaking in rain?
[Hook]
These ain’t just beats, these are battle cries,
Echoes in the night where a young dream dies.
We danced to the rhythm, now we march in flame,
It ain’t the art that’s broken — it’s the message to blame.
So I rap for the truth, not the diamonds and fame,
‘Cause the blood on these bars got a mother in pain.
This mic was a sword, now it’s just a parade,
Of empty anthems that lead the youth astray.
[Verse 2]
The cadence is catchy, the chorus a trap,
They dress death in Dior and put war in a snap.
Ain’t no nuance, no growth, no light in the verses,
Just curses rehearsed in commercial rehearses.
We traded the prophets for puppets with grills,
Who market the struggle but don’t know how it feels.
Now every hook’s about killin’ or pillin’ or dealin’,
Like trauma’s a trophy and numb is appealing.
But what about healing? What about scope?
What about verses that teach you to cope?
What about love, or the value of breath?
Now it’s suicide notes over 808s of death.
They sell you a casket disguised as a coupe,
Make you think you the man with a .22 loop.
But it’s all an illusion — a theater of scars,
While execs sip wine off your Spotify stars.
[Bridge – Stripped Beat, Spoken Flow]
Tell me, who profits from a young boy’s rage?
Who wrote the script that put pain on the stage?
Who turned the poet into just a parade
Of hollow reflections with no soul to save?
[Hook – Repeated, Stronger Delivery]
These ain’t just beats, these are battle cries,
Echoes in the night where a young dream dies.
We danced to the rhythm, now we march in flame,
It ain’t the art that’s broken — it’s the message to blame.
So I rap for the truth, not the diamonds and fame,
‘Cause the blood on these bars got a mother in pain.
This mic was a sword, now it’s just a parade,
Of empty anthems that lead the youth astray.
[Verse 3 – Reflective Finale]
Bring back the griots, the teachers with rhythm,
Who painted our struggle but showed us the vision.
Bring back the poets who bled through the beat,
Not just sold us a trap but a path to-the street.
