lirik lagu lyrik-the-rapper - inner therapist
(verse 1):
through the days i’m ruminating, wondering just who’s to blame?
myself or maybe a false thought or a dozen, mind’s like, “who’s to say?”
i’ve thought of a dozen of thoughts, false memories of stupid things
including hate, due losing pace and losing sleep, blue hour, dew’s not late
real or fake, the lines are blurred, never taking prescription
written my name in my blood in the sink, kept a razor for imprints
depression deeper than a fissure, all these visuals, i’m inept, am i tripping?
never to chip into my well~being; am i well being a misfit?
iconoclasm of critics, it’s been a classic “i’m driven~
~to straight up madness”, i’m ripping the f~cking bandages, sickened
and damaged, the scabs that i’m picking, i visit a bath and i’m swimming
in a f~cking tangle of picked~up cables, i’m back to the itching
the inner immaculate build of an actual abstraction of a human
dysmorphic values revisited, i be lacking the feelings
that others have when they’re living, also laughing with companions, i feel this
train of thought chasm, it’s riveted, the way of lacking a really
warm hand to hold, and i ask for forgiveness
my hypothalamus in an inner cataclysm, the masses have a vision
of stacking the riches, the shadow i’ve hidden as is attacking my wishes
and my own accolades driven forward
what am i living for?
not livid nor really living, norms
driven out of proportion, a bit distorted, disordered
vivid poems dripped out of stricken pores
i’ve likened disorders to titans that grow ’round the~
~tightest of borders whom bite through the orifice
sight is distorted, my plight is inordinate
heightened when worn~out, anxiety rejoicing
to be depressed, they surmise it’s a choice
when really, it’s something i’m born with
from the start i’ve never picked my poison
paint a picture color dolor of joylessness
my ocd be so obscene, woven deep in the psychosis dreams
woke up each moment coping, try to slow and breathe, it’s holding me hostage, think
i wanna go out like odb and od, b, oh, the ode to be
ought to be conquering these compulsive deeds, it’s pulling me both ways, controlling my mien
fate of the weather with the weight of a feather
tell to wait for a fella, wish and pray, keep your head up
all the days you were fed up with your face, how you dressed
and you don’t pay when the rent is elevated, your head is
just so vacant, it’s better when in a place you got bread
and you’re not taking your daily medication, in bed is where you
lay, and you’re tryna find a way to get to heaven
you’re stuck in the mental maze, no entrance nor exit
a slow drowning aspect of my surroundings, i found out nothing matters when the others are pouting
nostalgic past relics cut off from the grappling hands of media, scr~ppling off of doubt~pieces
it’s a how~to~be journey with future found~to~be gurneys, i’m not a propped starter, my text is an owl seek~esque
i see less in no jest, with hints of graphite under my breath, stumbling, struggling to rest
hues of blue hour, pondering everything and nothing under grey misty corridors of luminous streetlights
i spit out insecurities i used to chew, cluddered to the brim, the moon is shining, such a keen sight
poking more holes to further gnaw the flesh of troubled anxiety, in it’s flesh, to the bone
cataclysmic cubicle f~ckery, my items in itineraries tend to be carbon~copies of no home
all i’ve known all my life is a dome surrounded by plexiglass, my synapses aren’t yet honed
my past set my future up for failure, leaving an empty road with no goals, so go and leave me alone
my vocal cords and eyes both convey a shade of red, distorted wisdom in your soul takes a tremendous toll
residual effects of feeling less than a human, a cycle of messing up everyday, my face is a joke
raising the tone of anguish that grows, flowing deeper than the sap of sugar maple trees
i’ve lost ease easily, i find peace in my pain because that’s the thing that most encompasses me
a self~conceited f~ck that’s doesn’t think about second tries, in this shrouded head of mine lacks empathy
barely leaving my house, i have no plans, infrequent flukes and flaws of my being
it’s my fault wasting time to conjure a false hope, holding on to this paper, hoping the stars’ll align
after all, the starting line isn’t the finish line, so in this time i wish i have enough time
diligent but through an indecisive glimpse, this kind of nature is nothing new from me
usually i soothe the beat the best i can, my words cut your expectations in half, i think it’s funny, see
constant rotating motion of trial and error, i’ll vent only through clangors of rackety thresholds
enclosed sp~ce, time is running out so face, i left the good me in rubble
held on to the sorrow for long enough alone, i’m shifting into a new form of me
the stormy seeds grow up and branch as an inept shape, kept close, boxed in, from an inordinate need
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