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HARMONIZE
from Belief System - 2004
This is the way I harmonize.
I spit spoken word like cyanide.
Otherwise my people might die inside.
So I force myself to stay alive.
I need you to catch a spell.
But I refuse to explain these words
before you hear'em.
You just gotta get near'em
and try to feel'em.
And my job is to deal'em
and hope they flush,
then watch'em bust over you
and bring you closer.
I was born on the bottom.
So I'm a soldier in trenches
that most of y'all
never even knew existed.
When my pockets get broke,
I get reenlisted.
And the only way I can survive,
is to relay more pictures.
And my future's more Gil's
than Maya's,
I will die
relatively unknown and artistic.
And my eyes seen Sonia Sanchez
walk through airports and train stations
undetected, without anybody realizing
that she was one of the most respected
wordsmythes in my art form.
As for my brethren,
I come apart for'em.
I slit my wrist and watch'em smoke
and you can catch a contact
or take a toke.
But if you allow yourself
to be drug-tested,
you WILL be arrested.
And life's gift was this death wish.
But I go on,
while a million imposters steal my form.
Take it to the masses and try to get famous
while my crowd just wants to know
what I can do for'em.
Well I'm this poetic anomaly,
representing temporary stability
and positive debauchery,
so poets secretly wishing for my death
just like philosophers did with Socrates.
And every day, I get an email looking for advice
or information on how to steal my life.
And I tell 'em:
"Son,
you don't wanna be me.
If "I'm free,
it's cause I'm always runnin'."
And if I didn't know how to blend in so well,
I would already be livin' out my last days in jail."
But, this is the way I harmonize.
I spit spoken word like cyanide.
Otherwise my people might die inside.
So I force myself to stay alive.
Used to only write poems
so I could drive
poets into retirement.
But I've seen so many people sufferin'
and barely survivin' that now
I only aspire to be inspiring.
I wanna be like that nude model
in that art class,
so whenever I feature
poets show up with their pen and their pads.
And as I dig deep inside
and my pain is revealed,
poets close their eyes
and explain what they feel.
Like I've replayed my darkest days
to the point that I be standing up on this stage
with junkies and crack hoes.
But they all be up inside of me and
every track shows.
Like I'm standing here
trying to give y'all wisdom
wearing some ratty slippers
and a dirty bathrobe.
And if your baffled,
it's because this is verbal braille;
engineered through self-mutilation
to burn like hell.
Jump up on stage
and rip off my veil.
Cause the harder I breathe,
the more you open your eyes.
So I dig from my diaphragm
'til it feels like I'm about to die.
And just before I collapse
and I can feel my lungs cry.
That's when you...catch the spell.
So I force myself to stay alive.
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