My Inspiration

I love writing. I do not like to confine my creativity to the boundaries of simply essay form, but instead, I enjoy exploring all forms of self-expression: poetry, playwriting, screenwriting, etc.

One day, I decided to experiment with poetic verse and lyrical rhyming. I sat down at my computer, put on some of my favorite Hip-hop songs, and began to write on a blank MS Word screen.

After a few failed attempts, where I wrote a few good lines and then could not prolong the verse, I decided to stop and think. At this moment, my mood changed and I became angered. Then, while I was enraged, I sat back down and tried to write again. Somehow, even though I was not really angry, the words began to flow out of me and the verses began to take shape. The mindset that I had created for myself, a world of struggle and pain, actually permitted me to open up and write.

Therefore, the lyrical tone is not happy. In a way, I did not feel at the time that anybody would want to hear about happy, joyful rhymes. Who would want to read that? Nobody. What people want is personal pain, personal agony, personal strife, personal struggle. And, oddly enough, when I placed myself in that mentality, I was able to deliver. The creativity did not hit a wall, but instead, flourished and used the rage as a catalyst to create magic.

Notice, throughout the lyrics, the use of poetic devices. I incorporated metaphors, similes, slant/near rhymes, all in an effort to convey my emotions. (even though those emotions were not all real)

It is funny. Writing these lyrics made me question the very basis of Hip-hop. I know I could not consistently produce such lyrics because I am lucky enough not to be struggling with the same issues as a lot of the rappers are. Is it only they who can write Hip-hop? Must horrible events take place in one's life to be able to make Hip-hop work? Probably not. A true artist is able to rhyme about anything: romance, comedy, violence, sex, or just playing with words, but the entire experiment taught me how tough it really is to express one's self through verse.

You should try it. Who cares how it turns out, it is the struggle and battle that counts. It is a great test of personal creativity and cleverness. If you are successful, the feeling is unexplainable. You have written in a way that you never thought possible. And, if you fail, no big deal, now you know what true lyricists face every time they sit down to write.

I found freedom in it. Hopefully you will too.

Lyric #1

The world around me
A kid growin’ up in high society, gettin’ high to bear society
Gettin’ high to forget society
Gettin’ high to change personality, to erase all propriety
It’s in the blood, live like a king, not a Crip or a Blood
Don’t talk back, don’t talk black, don’t say that or do this or make that attack
On this man, in front of him stand, and be manly to extend your hand
Acceptin’ a gift of true generosity
Because it does not require honesty, just nod your head properly
No need for modesty
Be verbose, Be impulsive, Be cocky
Ignore the outsiders, even if they work harder than Rocky
Cus Balboa ended up poor, ignorin’ Rocky’s 1-4, cus in number 5
All he was left with was a family, a speech impediment, and a pair of black eyes
Ain’t no peas to appease what is spoken to please these black guys
Wu Tang said it best, of Shaolin style, Cash Rules Everything Around Me
If you don’t make it, blow your brains out like Private Pyle
Of the Jacket that was Full, he went to pull the trigger, go figure he quit life unable to make it bigger.
Cash Money agrees, live like a top dog eatin’ only the best pedigree
#1 Stunna, shinin’ to tha death
If it ain’t about the doe, than what’s left?
The struggle, set on stardom, but there is no constellation
In the sky, I look up, there is no second place prize

The world around me
A kid growin’ up in high society, high class, ignorin’ all propriety
People instruct him with abrupt references to mention his dissention
From high class worlds, high class jewels, and high class intentions
Surrounded, an army of fake militia
No guns
No gernades
No generals
Just money and a Visa
But just cus they plastic don’t make them fake
Yea it does
They plastic, they can’t hardly relate
To the struggle
To the emotion: like pleasure or pain
That I instill in these rhymes takin me to the top of tha game

The world around me
A kid growin’ up in high society, high status, labeled in need of psychiatry
Ignorin’ the paralysis caused by the analysis of high class shallowness
Young and white
Called a wigga, or a black look-a-like
Just cus I wear my hat on a slant, to the side, where my armband lies
Just cus I match my colors, head to toe, I am labeled a fly Negro
Yea I like rap, I love to write
Why should it matter what color I am: black or white?
Write just to Write, the only thing white, should be the paper onto which black words derive their might