This music made me

I’m a little bit of punk rock, yup.
I’m a little bit of hip-hop, yup.
Son, don’t tell me I can’t do this
this music made me.
Yellow man, this music made me.
The microphone doesn’t know what color you are.
And the big room booms
when you know what your voice is for.

Respectful.

No autotune,
no recording booth,
but this production suite is sweet,
I make my own beats,
not perfect, but I’m learning,
riding straight edge, not swerving.
Sober because I’m busy,
busy because I’m sober,
Do this for the love, I work free.
My art untangled from my money.

Day job keeps me fed.
Keeps the apartment paid
a roof over my head
Menial bullshit
my tie is not who I am.
Jersey City slam shit
this is who I am.

Respect that.

I’m a little bit of punk rock, yup.
I’m a little bit of hip-hop, yup.
Son, don’t tell me I can’t do this
this music made me.
Yellow man, this music made me.
The microphone doesn’t know what color you are.
And the big room booms
when you know what your voice is for.

Lucky enough to grow up in the suburbs
Never went to bed hungry
But white kids never heard my words
Only saw what they wanted to see
Tiny brown eyes, big nose, yellow skin,
I was alone, didn’t have kin.
Ran the schoolyard alone
caught thrown stones
and crushed my face with ‘em,
internalized self-hatred
to what end?

Now Central Jersey looks like Chinatown
Little India, Little Manila, we’re all around,
We could push you out, reverse gentrification
But we’d rather share, full gratification
of this Dream. Americans, sometimes you need
guests to remind you of who you ought to be.

Welcome back.

I’m a little bit of punk rock, yup.
I’m a little bit of hip-hop, yup.
Son, don’t tell me I can’t be here
this country made me.
Yellow man, America made me.
The microphone doesn’t know what color you are.
And the big room booms
when you know what your voice is for.