Vocabulary Spills I'm Ill.

Born Alone, Die Alone, No Crew To Keep My Crown Or Throne

I Want To Sound Like An Instrument. I Want My Voice And My Words To Marry The Beat. I Go With The Rhythm Of It And The Words Start To Come To My Mind And Those Words Could Be Based On Things That's Been On My Mind For The Past Year, The Past Month, The Past Week, Whatever; I Write It.

We're All Africans, Everyone - Black, White, Yellow.

Hip-hop Is Dead Cause America Is Dead Culturally.

Once You Make It To Your Point Of Making It, You'll Appreciate The Struggle.