BUILDING BLUEPRINT
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Lyrical Analysis of...
aftermath
- took a seat near the rear of the 32 route, shoes still damp from the dew on the curb
- mood brewed low from a brutal view that skewed my the whole afternoon, the dude two rows up kept scrollin’ through news
- and the fumes from his food were abusive, like tuna with blue cheese and some lukewarm stew
- refused to include in my usual thought loops, a rude manager, two texts and a clue that I’m due for a change
- not just new shoes or a few days away, but somethin that proves i’m not glued to what i grew into
- truthfully, this bus seat is the only booth I’ve had lately where I process the truth
- with a passion that’s practically patent, with the ladder and cash in, slappin your fandom back to the attic
- you’re panickin, actin like grapplin hands from a match just snatched at your jacket and fractured yo ass again
- snapped in the fashion of Bas Rutten laughin in back of the van with a cam that captured the aftermath
- slappin you flat and i’m smashin your stance while you’re standin in half of a track
- that collapsed like a nasa pad, back at the lab with a can of the gas they hand out at demolition matches
- handle it like after a fast collapse in a half lit alley, draggin a trash can packed with the ashes of rappers
- who yapped at the wrong one and vanished, i’m dashin’ through brackets with accuracy fast as McNabb passing
- bashin you while you’re flashin your shit like it’s magic, you crashin, i’m blastin through plasticky tracks
- i’m back and I’m badder than battles in backyards with batons and jackets of black and red flannel
- i’m jackin’ your traction like amazon snatchin the package before you could unwrap it and brag again
- the second I hover you stutter and buckle, your cover gets smothered, you clutter your punches with nothing but mumbles
- constructed like bunkers, i’m double the pressure, your number is up and i’m lungin’ for lunch with a custom agenda
- your function’s bug ridden, i crush it like plumbers with rusted equipment, you struggle to muster a gust of momentum
- i’m thumpin through bundles of diction and uppercuts pumpin your structure, i’m uppin’ the budget
- a buffer that ruptures your comfort, i’m thuggin like Butcher, pushin’ a button to summon destruction
- jug after jug like a flood, i’m subtle as sucker punches in public, you’re stumblin, juggle a couple of knuckles
- i’m flushin your plug with a plunger from Home Depot, I’m the whole depot, unloading the function
- and dumpin the junk you constructed with duct tape, strolled through the lot with a tote from trader joe’s
- and a note folded inside that quoted an old voicemail about exposure to mold spores
- cold shoulders from checkout folk, motion sensors broke so the doors stayed closed
- holes near the shoulders but I rolled with it solo, headphones low, caught my reflection in a soda machine
- below the no refunds sign, folded receipts from Cold Stone creamery poking out
- like a confessional in slow motion, motioned for the uber but the road was closed
- went for the metro, phone at 4%, no charger, and i’m told by folks that the road home ain’t shown on the normal route
- pouring soda into cups that overflowed, and it showed, shoulder cold, forehead against the remote control
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A blueprint is like a report card for your lyrics. It contains a lyrical breakdown and analysis of all the words, syllables, and rhymes in your song.
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