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I put a vocal ontop at 2:20


Oh when I'm alone,

 I cannot escape

Creatures that I have started to create.

All around they fly,

All around they wait.

They will not even let me escape.


Alive, keep me alive.

Keep me alive, alive, alive.


If you like it feel free to make any adjustments!!





A tiny prayer

From tiny hands

A tiny hope

For tiny souls

A tiny dream

From tiny minds

With powers to do big things

In a big world.



Help Stop Kony.


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So i wrote this in lieu of the LRRH collabs and such. I just did it for fun, and i was hoping some musically inclined soul could make a beat for it! (I'm instrumentally challenged lol) It's a little unconventional - the storyline is that LRRH falls in love with the wolf. (hehe)

It's unfinished and a little rough - I'm working on it though! So if you like it, please feel free to make a beat for it. It needs a good melody. :)








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I stare at the diagram in front of me. The human skeleton stares back. Two-hundred and six blank lines are waiting for the pencil in my hand to scrawl out their answers. I glance around the room. There is gliding of pens and scratching of heads.


But there is no skeleton on my paper; I see no such thing. There is a blank canvas just aching to be filled with memories and ideas and emotions and color. It whispers to me. "Come, fill me up with those daydreams in your head", it says. "Construct me so that I am beautiful." I obey. The pencil in my hand starts to move and glide and twist and turn and -


I tell the people in my head to hush now; I have problems to finish and diagrams to label. That's when my brain starts yapping on about how it hates mathematical problems; they're so.....problematic. So rigid. So demanding. So black and white. They leave you no room for error. No thinking outside the box. No color. No creativity. No personality. Nothing to design, nothing to flourish, nothing to make your own.


Suddenly I hear a grand rhythm. It flows as if from nowhere and swirls around my head. My pencil is beggining to tap against my desk, creating a fine beat. The people inside my head ignore my threats and begin composing harmonies for the rhythm. One daring voice starts singing a tune. Lyrics are spilling out every-which-way when suddenly I'm thrust back into reality by a strong shot of silence.


As it turns out there was never a grand symphony; it was the ticking of the angry clock that had been spitting beats. The bossy clock is telling me to hurry up. I reluctantly acknowledge the skeleton on my paper. I turn off my thoughts and start working. It seems I've been doing a lot of "turning-off-my-thoughts" lately. But how could I not, with all that surrounds me.

For it is not just the skeleton who demands my attention.

 No, no there is more. Parents who want a medical scholar; not some artist or writer or singer. Professors who demand the rigid, tangible, and obvious rather than the spontaneous, colorful, or free. A future that insists on being rational and reasonable and predictable. A glass prison with no escape. Beauty and no way to capture it. A songbird in a canary's cage. These things sink their razor sharp claws into my skin and pull me deep, deep down into the depths of the black sea; a weight of ten thousand bricks upon my chest.

Quietly suffocating.

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