[HOOK]
I don’t need my name back, fuck that fame shit,
black hood low while the whole lane glitch.
Platoon in the cut with the same grin,
we don’t knock twice, we just came in.
Low voice drag like smoke through the vent,
old heads know what the cadence meant.
I been gone, now the room feel bent,
one post up, got the past upset.
[VERSE 1]
I came from broke plans, loud dreams, bad luck,
cheap mic humming while the rent went past due.
Me and my dog had heat in the stash too,
then the high got a mouth and chewed through.
I ain’t here to cry about the wreck, I drove it,
laughing with a bottle while the bridge corroded.
Pocket full of numb, whole spirit overloaded,
still wrote lines like the devil ghostwrote it.
Used to slip into a calibrated coma,
not to be poetic, just to duck the aroma
of the real world breathing on my shoulders,
wake up meaner with the night getting colder.
Fuck a pity party, I made dirt useful,
bad habit, heart full of loose screws.
Now the pen got teeth and the flow got voodoo,
platoon move quiet like the block knew you.
No face on the cover, no alias needed,
personal page, little clip, then they feel it.
“Wait, that voice…” yeah, don’t speak it,
let that rumor crawl through the room anemic.
Thirty-three now, still slick with the pressure,
less crash dummy, more grim professor.
Black hoodie sermon, low-end lecture,
bar for bar, I turn scars into texture.
[HOOK 2]
I don’t need my name back, fuck that fame shit,
platoon in the cut with the same grin.
Low voice drag like smoke through the vent,
one post up, got the past upset.
[VERSE 2]
I want drums with a basement odor,
bassline drunk like it slept in a motor.
Flow move heavy, but the tongue stay nimble,
Meth smoke twist with a Pac-type temper.
Truth in the verse, no costume flexing,
middle-finger music with a hood confession.
I seen love get thin when the drugs got tempting,
seen friends turn fog when the room got tense.
Still got respect for the ones that were there,
even when silence put cracks in the prayer.
Some shit dies, some shit repairs,
ghosts only talk when the bass hit the stairs.
Platoon ain’t cute, it’s code and caution,
brothers in shadow with no need for applause.
Everybody grown, so the threats stay polished,
but the room knows when the calm turns toxic.
Black mask energy, VHS manner,
purple-green flicker on a broke street camera.
If they ask who, let the answer get scattered,
old bad news with a brand-new grammar.
[BRIDGE]
Don’t say my name, let it rot in the static.
Don’t ask for proof, let the room get dramatic.
Don’t call me saved, that’s a little too plastic.
I came back sharp, not soft, not average.
[FINAL HOOK]
I don’t need my name back, fuck that fame shit,
black hood low while the whole lane glitch.
Platoon in the cut with the same grin,
we don’t knock twice, we just came in.
Low voice drag like smoke through the vent,
old heads know what the cadence meant.
I been gone, now the room feel bent,
one post up, got the past upset.
izayah
