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letra de my room (prod. sabzi) - nick buglione (dey bishop)

back to my room/
back to my craft, yeah, back to my doom/
back to the fact that my raps are fact
every pad that i had gets stacked with the truth
and they stacked to the roof/
should i rap ’bout the fact that my dad h-lla sick
and i just spent the week by his side in the hospital in the same pants
and i act not sad ’round my dad but in fact i could yak from this news/
or the fact that my cuz sold crack out the back of his pants on the ave for some cash
left my fam in a sham when a man pulled a gat on my cuz, he got bracked in his back to his tomb/
back to my room/
back to these raps that i craft cause they soothe/
better than a gram, better than a xan
whether the weather is worse or better with these letters that i hand in a tune/
back to my room/
back to my room, back to the fact that your real friends go hand over hand tryna manage your sadness, i won’t take advantage of fam, so i act not sad for the crew/
cause i love ’em-
shout to matty and kay, this sadness?-
tryna trump it, never was a fan of the blues/
back to my room, back back back to my room/

back to my room, honestly, i’m f-cking thrown/
but i’m socrates, high philosophies, i’m blunted though/
do this for my homies that got degrees, but caught the c-ck and squeeze on their alma mater street coming home/
we weren’t thugs, but we straight played along/
really cuba good, but had our ice cube face painted on/
rest in peace to my people who maybe ain’t made it home/
cause their color scheme, red or blue make gray grave stones/
in my room, watching rappers instagram flex
rich now but i know you used to be a frugal cat/
boy, kick the rocks, i hit the b-tches and hit the blocks that you f-ckboys were too scared to google map/

when i go and spit, i reach your soul and hit you/
every bar from the heart, every flow is a poem, got you holding tissues/
and my flows rip a whole through the solar system/
born where they sold dope out the volvo
hold a fo, cause the po po hold chrome, wake up, this is folgers roasting in a loaded pistol -bloaw/
yeah, they holding pistols/
but the way that a stray graze the face of a eight grader and second hand had his family in shambles
they might as well be throwing explosive missiles/
born where them fo fo’s pr-ne to hit you/
when your soul gone, homie, know them hoes won’t miss you/
got your mom, old, by your head stone, throwing rose, homies toast to your ghost, got ’em holding tissues/
now, lets get this sh-t wavy, kay got the loud, about an ounce’ll do/
my vision is hazy, you found my soundcloud, you found the dude/
swear dey is straight crazy, and if you play ’round, you clowns and fools/
you’ll be pushing up daisies, like gatsby face down inside the pool/
back to my room, back to this craft/
was sad for a tune, now i’m back on that -ss/
back to my room, back to my doom
back to the fact that my raps are fact every pad that i had gets stack with the truth
and they stacked to roof/
them rhymes and rhythms remind me, its my time to bomb now/
aligning these lines ease my mind, i shine and then i calm down/
talk to my dad, he say his life flash so fast/
he wonder why his boy only write raps so sad/
but then he heard my tape, heard the verse about him on the outro
it eased his mind, put a price tag on that/
your gun don’t pow pow, fakers, tryna sound bout gangsta/
on soundcloud, y’all are clowns like wow how dangerous/
while you’re loud mouth, brainless, i just crowd round stages/
and decapitate emcees after they bow down nameless/
but really rap is therapy/
my room is my sanctum, where no man compare to me/
every line’s an escape from my troubled home/
take my cards shuffle those, only with a couple flows/

- nick buglione dey bishop

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