Track 9 on Let Up.
My Instagram: @prestonjarrettmusic
My Spotify: open.spotify.c...
Recorded at Bedclub Studios
Let's get one thing straight, I am not some
Bitt you could tie a line to, I am not a stable ground to walk on, I am not your friend
I could put a bullet in the head of every false ideal smeared on a bedroom wall, you wanna
Ask yourself why you'd cross the River Euphrates with a slit throat to beg for crucifixion? Listen
No dignity in turning back time, wine into water, seeing red, just to clarify
About as transparent as the ashes of American flags, adulterous contact, hit and run followed
By a drag above a patch of rough, trying to filter purpose from deafening soundscapes 'til
Mountains break into incoherence, I'd smash your skull to bits with the cornerstone of what I find
Between a rock and a spacious divide, wide as your eyes could see under the brief shade of indeterminacy
Tossing bravado off cliffs, streaks in the windows of hellish abyss
Nails chipping at the inevitability, skidding along your finances to slip
Confusing the brake for the life that you sought, the guidance you doctored back to a mirage
Trained myself to tie limp bodies on tracks, never had a brain to begin with
Suffering from tunnel vision, I got crosshairs aiming straight at your soft focus
A bit too picture perfect, think you're missing the point here, it was never
About you, or your immediate surroundings, it was whether or not you could
Compose something beautiful out of the shapes and colors within your mental images
Got caught waving a white flag at the world's end, torn up for a makeshift tourniquet
Held black mass at the grave sites of better men, bloody palms at the forefront of everything, dead
(Born in fall, dead by spring)
Church pews filled with secondhand regret, organs playing notes of discontent
All you know is shutting down now, should have planned in advance for this and just quit
(Another left 'til stranded)
Artifice too thick to cut with a knife, wouldn't nurse it back to health
For a bill, day in bed and quiet conscience, right? Bloodbath in the wake of steadiness, guillotine
Don't let up, fester in self-reflection until you finally get it done, back to
Fronting again, huh? Curious as to where you're going, planning on chaos
And disorder in the court your ball was in, classless, misogynistic, hapless
Passed out on accomplishment's dining room floor, bound by strings and malevolent
Accomplices, the hell you think you're hunting for? A silhouette of an artform, the bastardization of everything
I've fought for? Girls with curves like the curb your jaw dropped for?
To be honest, I'm struggling to conjure up an effective way to get my point across, and all I've
Lost in the process of regaining momentum, what an aspiration really costs, not so much money, but knowledge, potential pathways and better versions of yourself
Kind of why I write in exchange for all the memories I should have developed
And nobody can take that away from me, not some half-wit rapper trying to make a name for themselves, not some
Talentless hack with no motivation other than to waste my time, and I dare someone to
Make a diss record out of some subconsciously masochistic desire, 'cause I want nothing
More than to pick someone apart and throw parades atop their remains, I could
Find a million ways to say I'd murder you on a track, but I'd rather display your mangled body hung by the nape with your crumpled words in place of a
Tongue, watch your ego fall back into the atmosphere, self-immolate, land on my
Doorstep as a speck insignificant enough to forget, if you
Kill me, you'll only be accepting defeat at the hand of the deceased, I'm sick Enough to vomit up your guts, you're the kind of disease you couldn't
Wish away with a bible in hand and twelve disciples at your feet, the
Kind Jesus Christ and modern medicine in conjunction couldn't resuscitate
Негізгі бет Preston Jarrett - Through Precipice (prod. by Omito)
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