between a hundred years of solitude and heaven once

"It's for the deaf kid in the aisle of the symphony who hears it through the rumble of the tuba and the timpani." - George Watsky

Every once in a while I stumble across true lyricists. People who by their words reaffirm the thumping heartbeat of life that can be found in music. And meanwhile reaffirm the empty hollow burned-out sunken melting corpses of what are the pathetic remnants of today's "mainstream" hip hop.

Somehow, these lyricists resurrect the death of truth. They rewind past the timely ignorance of a generation who is blind to the crusty gold spray paint plastered to its face. They tackle real issues. Well, no. First, they define what is "real," set it as undeniable, and then tackle it with this crazy mix of bravery elegance urgency and wit all at once.

They point lasers in the eyes of corruption, blaze fire in the face of oppression, shine spotlights on the mute minority; they are the long-forgotten conscience of society.

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but perhaps there will always be you who prefer standing on the corner
hustling till your bone marrow and veins drain empty
and the valves and chambers of the hearts
of those who love you shatter into a million parts
with your shiny silver rims that cost you money (that you stole)
digging deeper into the mess and mud of your own (grave) hole
writing pride on your arms, signing two initials on your chest
naive enough to believe one worth is precious, more expensive than the rest
but nobody comes out on top when everybody's thinking "dey da best"
so give up on the vanity, 'cause vanity comes in vain
and then comes the pain of your unresolved yesterday
the gain of burden on the shoulders of tomorrow
self pity before the vultures embark, then land to feast on all your sorrow