Yeah, I’m a rap star, scars on my heart like constellations,
diamonds drip, still drown in the basement.
Momma cryin’ on the voicemail—money can’t erase it,
I just poured a 4, let the pain do displacement.
Chrome in the booth, bars got a cold tint,
every platinum plaque still feel like a sentencing.
They want the old me—dead or in a cage,
I rose from the pavement, still speakin’ like it’s a grave.
Tour bus full of ghosts, every mile a reminder,
contract signed in blood, success is a minor.
Crowd scream my name like it’ll bring back the dead,
I just smile, hit the mic, let the royalties clear the Feds.