I run on my own power supply, mechanical ligaments
Move to the tempo producing a beat by simply moving my fingertips
Unlisted amongst the “Who’s Who”s
But still, what kind of machine you know operates on loose screws
Better than this? My output efficiency surpasses that of the industry
standard of sufficiency. Radio rappers with mental deficiency
can’t even belittle me. On stage, back to the crowd
Conducting a manic symphony.
I was running low, battery life sinking again
But that could change with the flick of a wrist and the ink in my pen
Pen to my pad, pad to my mike, mike to my track now that I’m back
Still living with that mentality of “Fuck Rap”
And I could care less about a mad critic
critiquing my speech, proving wrong every last cynic
I live through the rhythm and give them my soul with every word
Because a beat can bring me to life when my pulse aligns with it

What’s on Your Mind?

If hypocrisy could only set my mental free
I’d indulge in it, because I’m not afraid of backpedaling
I can be so ugly, if you ever saw judgmental me
Pointing my finger at you, you’d ask “how black could this kettle be?”
I could weigh my values to find the worth in me
But measuring my principals would be an uncertainty
If I could honestly live up to the hype
You’d be the one that answers the knock at the door
and I’d be Walter White
I’m the one who knocks. Yeah, and you know this
You’re more like Jesse when he was strung out, a blowfish
You intimidate, got that mock stare
But you just inflate, full of hot air
Giving up would take everything that I have
I could always break the habit, but I don’t know if I could Break Bad
Seeing me would be a step out of your bracket
Right into a plastic casket of hydrofluoric acid

What’s on Your Mind?

I’m not the type that’s taking my soul and selling it
I’m the type that’s better off at staying irrelevant
While still staying relevant, at least in a different sense
You think you got greener grass? I think you’re seeing a different fence
And I don’t even want your side, you can keep it
Because my side over here has the best kept secrets
Talking your Mac Miller and all of your people
When the only Macs I care to hear are Ten, Leven , and Lethal
And I don’t mean to be so good it makes you hate yourself
But you should probably take notes from [ BRACE YOURELF ]
By the way John (whatup) you put so much trust in me
To deliver that child (Now you're sharing the custody)
Now I’m not saying they’re doing it best
When I say I’m slightly envious of mainstream success
But the only way I’d work with Young Money if offered to do it
Is if I bought the label with drug money and laundered it through it
Because at the end of the day, I’m sitting in the same spot
Looking at the same page, staring at the same ink blot
So what right do I have to hate on success?
Wait, I give a fuck less if I’m justified or possess
any sanity in what I say. My madness is a given
I wouldn’t say there’s a method to it; more like a rhythm
There’s no filter on me now and I ain’t crossing out any lines
I hope you have a whole album’s worth of time when you ask me

What’s on Your Mind?