"Self Tidal" ft. Ceschi
An older hip hop song of mine featuring my good friend Ceschi and my brother DJ Creative providing the cuts at the end.
New things in the works!
- Brendan // Shoshin
So, finally it seems I’ve awakened from sleeping at the zenith of ten thousand hours of self-medicating. And as I sit here in fear, regret, severe stress that sears the flesh, a misery mirrorless, I recollect the panic that swept through every channel of sweat, every nerve-ending, and every potential failing of breath. A stark darkness seen at the bottom of a heart hardened through over-consumption of this aura-altering substance. I took it all in, for what it was worth. Strangling my liver like a serial killer at work. Thought I saw heaven. I know it was nothing but a drunken blur, a fantasia for my brain, a fairy tale for my nerves. The suffering spoke to me in tongues. We locked arms like country lovers and danced until it hurt. The scariest places on earth are cemeteries where we don’t bury our dead, but bury our dirt.
Drink the elixir till your good conscience bends and become a monster until your consciousness ends. Wake up in the morning with no memory of what you said, what you did. These are the days I allow myself to freeze in a frame of self-hate.
Do you know what it is like consistently convincing yourself you’re dying? You’ve acquired a courage eating disease needing to feed. Inhale infernos through your nose and tell me the terror doesn’t make you want to medicate to forget the pain. The might of mind is quite unkind after frightful nights of trying your body’s faculty to fight. Somebody save me from this chimerical cardiac arrest, some siren singing, unhanding me from insanity:
"Sweet child of God, let your lament be lost in the light of love, for yourself, for once. Kick off your shoes, race to the top of the sand dunes."
Like when I was younger with my father in Gloucester?
"I quell the cries of unquiet minds. You can be once more the innocent child they adored."
The one they loved for his unwavering will, once sacred, now shaking at the feet of the future.
The air was opaque and thick as thieves, impairing areas of clarity, so I slept in my own sick it seems. And if you live at the bottom of a bottle, the cylinder forces fetal positions out of all linear postures. Don’t pour me out your 40oz when I’m dead; I’d rather be resting in peace than still ingesting fermented yeast. But bury me with the lariat from which I hung, chandelier-like, shimmering over a dinner table full of loved ones.