Real Talk

Sivion: I gotta question, I gotta question. What’s real? What’s real? Rap is full of emcees that think they got skills, but Sivion stands free to be God’s will. Above all the nonsense viewed to be real, then shine with the light to expose your cheap thrills. Still running with like-minded kats that can rap, gunning for them rats caught up in the trap. Bring ‘em back to the future present, the kingdom is present, when it comes to lyrics I sing ‘em and bless it. You can hate the message and crucify the messenger, “Thinking By Numbers” my crew supplies the lessons to. Clear up the flaws in today’s mathematics, the signs speak truth even though yall laugh at it. Yall can craft static and beef in any form, man I’m torn from the cloth of righteousness reborn. Called the Quiet Storm got a soft spot for nature, gotta love these emcees even though they hate ya

Chorus: Real Talk

MuzeONE: My flow realer than most chill with prose til frost bitten, with a killer approach skillful with flows raw spittin. Writtens hittin off the charts kickin pompous farts out the dark in parks giving hardened hearts a bit of strong vintage. My analogue is tangible your digital is mythical. The cynical are typically a visual of pitiful. I pen a fool with intricate penmanship and a thimble full of sentiment for them entering in their own embarrassment. I’m perfectly perpendicular to the paradigms apparently a parrot could spit a verse that could get him signed. Give em a deal, a pen, and a dime, no skill, a Benz, and a crime, that doesn’t give em a mind. And I ain’t payin em one stayin as dumb as playin the drums with a gun and they callin it crunk. But I ain’t callin em at all my lines be gettin busy with rhymes makin em dizzy at times until my pen’s empty

Chorus: Real Talk

Jurny Big: Yeah, in junior high I started a hall, I’m older by far so how’s that I’m harder than yall yeah. Real talk if I took my pen to the mainstream, I’d still rock and I’d still be saying the same things. I’m not a gospel rapper, I’m a hostile rapper speakin on the book of life and trippin might cost you a chapter. Yeah my daughter knows that I ain’t gatta be fake, her dad’ll be great spittin with his Battery mate, but you. You ain’t gotta twist my arm to kill a dope beat, they called me Philly harm it’s silly how I rolled heat. I’m married to the pen claiming you cold but it’s cold feet, you anorexic I’m panoramic I’m gon’ eat. I’m old street so there’s couple cracks in the asphalt, won’t double back when there’s trouble that is my dad’s fault. Since 80 somethin I spit it not for the cash vault, but real talk and I had no choice cuz your man’s called, that’s all

Chorus: Real Talk