Outlet

Yea i'm just young, i'm tryna fuck it up,
Tryna find some peace, some piece of mind,
So could you please shut the fuck up,
Write a rhyme i go nuts, this the best i've felt,
Since the last time i had a pretty bitch suck on my nuts

Got me Singin like its glee club, got more bars than lock up,
Plenty time, to grow up, hair grows out, i glow up,
Had shit to say since day one but now i've found the outlet,
This shits my plan c, yea i dont need no backup,

I'm Back up, i'm back in, i'm switched on like hawking
cy, crystal clean, tidy room got the juices flowin
These scribbles on my shelf, yea they messy like the tempo
cint got no paper left, write on myself like its, memento

clbum almost done but i got plenty more to say,
I aint done a lot of shit, but i've lived more than just a day
XP low, broke, but i got shit on the way
No bills, just enough to buy myself a bouquet

Lived with myself for long enough i think i'm starting to like me,
Hyper individualism, like i'm grinch upon christmas,
I'm a chronic creator, an animated caricature,
If you aint develop my character, Fuck it, see ya later (uh)

Yea i got a damn addiction to this shit,
Can't keep my mind off making all these bad lyrics and shit,
Got me in a chokehold like fucken rocky in this bitch
Got a drive full of tracks that ill probably never drop,
Yea i'm self concious when i spit

Yea i'm too small for this shit,
I got hair up on my balls but i aint experiencin shit
Sittin in the same room with writers block until it hits
Need a walk my mind around so i can try to clear my head
Waitin on a miracle i guess,

Lookin out at nature, yea i'm thinkin good things,
Out my window, where i come up with all my big dreams
Yea the birds flyin high, not a care in the world,
Yet, here i sit writing out every single word

That i think, like a sink, leakin out,
Freakin out, over stimulated, time to cool out,
Yea throw away the pen, (dont need it)
Find myself, (cant see it)
Yea i'm tryna keep my shit together feelin like a belt

New jeans? please i'm rockin shit from 2018,
Hand me downs, from my cousins they my Styalist team,
Dont need a fancy gold chain, or a pimped out rolex,
Just need a couple striped sweaters, nothin too complex,

Yea i'm a wacky mother fucker, throwin spit into my mic
Mix muddy, shoes fuzzy,yea i'm cookin all night
FL and Focusrite, yea thats all i can afford,
Yea dont need a grammy or a plaque, i buy my own awards,

Yea i say that, but at night i'm dreamin bout it in bed
I keep the fan on 3, cant hear whats up in my head,
cnd all the crazy people up there, they want me to drink
Yea i'm a genius, when i'm older they gon pay me to think

Yea i make music for the moments like this,
Out in the sun filmin videos, its good for my soul
Yea evryones already rappin, yea i'm runnin in last place
Gettin red up on my face, i need to pick up the damn pace

Need to finish the damn race, but i'm all out of breath,
Yea i dont know whats goin on a riddle wrapped in a mystery,
Boy rappin with energy, comin out with his best,
Yea write a full length album and release what is left,

Feel like i blacked out, woke up with ideas i think in sounds now
I feel like i evolved a diffrent voice, a diffrent boy now,
Sceef the flyest white boy here to fuck you with the sound now,
Dont recognise my name then suck my dick, and fucken sound it out.
(bitch)