The art of rap, is finding a needle in a barnyard, in the farthest stack, 

where the past shoe prints are blueprints and artifacts,

where words paint stories, of glories and struggles, just trying to stay on track,  

where the underdog stands tall with the hardest back,

 

before the streets drew blood like a shark attack, 

before trees were chopped up with the sharpest axe, 

before machines, seemed to be the saviour, 

if Hip Hop was our date, is this where we would take her?

 

before a beat was ever under a poem, 

who wrote the greatest story the worlds ever known?

who wrote the book, of the page you are turning?

if you think it was me, I agree you aren’t learning,

before the smoke filled up the sky, 

before we lived only to die, 

 

before drugs and thugs and indies and nerds,

back when people would actually picture the words,

back when music would cut down to the strongest mans soul, 

before his soul was sold and left him with a hole, 

before the hole followed and swallowed his mind, 

what he is looking for, he never can find, 

 

and shadows, and darkness, and myths, and shapes,

monsters and creatures and bulls and snakes, 

all together create such a stir, 

if Hip Hop was our date, is this where we would take her?

before the clubs, the cars, the clothes and chains, 

there was something that meant much more than fame.  

 

before a gun had to prove his point, 

there’s no surprise he ended up in the joint, 

but he’ll shout he was just trying to make a better life, 

how can something better come through the end of a knife? 

and he wonders why his mother still cries, 

because she holds onto hope at the end of his lies,

 

before defeat was ever an option,

before precious children were up for adoption,

the homeless exist because only the streets will listen,

In 96, we lost Tupac but gained It Was Written, 

 

before we turned to a temptation, when we were mad,

before we lost the relation between a son and his dad, 

before hate and pride and intimidation, 

that ate you inside, through discrimination, 

if its scribbled on this page, through a pen on a pad,

then this is a date that she’s never had, 

 

it is what it is, why try to be more?

why open a window and close all the doors?

even more, use history and connect it,

why is the art form hardly respected?

why is rap so commonly frowned on and hated?

the glorification of things we have made it,

 

before it became the issue talked about, 

it knew right from wrong, through rhyme no doubt, 

there is one more reason it is this today,

it is our doing, ours only that she is this way, 

so to those before me, I apologise,

how long will it take to break all the ties? 

 

the demise of our hero’s, predecessors in time, 

that only want hope to shine in your eyes, 

that want to touch hearts, to the point where yours stops,

stop throwing the diamonds and saving the rocks, 

if life is a test, don’t make it a fail,

leave a stamp on Hip Hop like you’re sending the mail,

 

the art of rap, is finding a needle in a barnyard, in the farthest stack, 

where the past shoe prints are blueprints and artifacts,

where words paint stories, of glories and struggles, just trying to stay on track,  

where the underdog stands up tall with the hardest back,

when will we learn that the message is real?

not something you hear but something you feel.