HYDER/SAYS/

When you want to succeed as bad as you want to breathe…

…that is when you’ll be successful. Maybe I think I work hard, but I don’t work as hard as I should. But in all honesty, I am doing it to the maximum. Less sleep and less rest. Less fun and less of anything appealing. I’ve spent all day, every day in the library for my “summer.” I am so freaking determined and heart set on what I want to do. I hate that I am constantly doubting myself, for what? What’s the point? What good does it serve me? I am working my absolute hardest. God willing the work pays off. Please, it has to pay off. Please. Please. Please let it pay off. That is all I ask. I am as strong willed and determined as they come, but when is it enough? Truth is, it’s not if it is when. I am going to succeed and I swear on my life that I will accomplish my goals.


futuredr:

I’m not sure who this guy is but apparently he’s a famous baseball player. He went over after a game to say hi to a fan fighting cancer; he didn’t know he was being filmed. I usually don’t post this kind of thing, but this just got to me. 

This is Matt Kemp and he is now my hero.


Earl.

Yeah, fuck that. Look, for contrast is a pair of lips. Swallowin’ syrup and settin’ fires to sheriffs whip. Fuckin’ all american terrorist. Crushin’ rapper larynx to feed ‘em a fuckin’ carrot stick. And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin.’ And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is. Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel. So that sterile piss flow remind these niggas where embarrassed is. Narrow, tight line, might impair him. Since I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type. Pharoah fuckin’ ill apperal wearin’ pack of parasite. Then threw his own youth off the roof after paradise. La di da di back in here to fuck the party up. Raiding fridges, tipping over vases with a tommy gun. Never dollars, pop would make it rain hockey pucks. 60 day chips from fuckin’ awesome anonymous. Call him bloated ‘til he show them that the flow deluxe. Off the wall loafers, four loko, and a cobra clutch. Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ho’ to pose his drum. Let me hit him, hit it with a stick until the ho was numb. Culprit of the potent punch. Scolding hot as dunking scrotum in a Folgers cup - or Nevada. Driving drunk inside a stolen truck. Shitting like his colon bust. Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum. Supernova, I’m rollin’ over the novices. I’m roamin’ through the forest and spittin’ cold as the porridge is. Stay gold ‘til the case closed and the story end. Post mortem porkin’ this rap shit and record it. To escort it to the morgue again. Lord of lips, bored of this. Forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list. Stormin’ the gate, who’s sure in the base, scorching ladies. Fortunately these motherfuckers soarin’, torso and face. Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache. Indian pack of niggas who don’t give a fuck if we nasty as flatulence. As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky so see me you can’t. Like crunchy black cats in a taxi. Back like lateral passing. With that motherfucking gladiator manner of rapping. As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me. Fall back if your paddies is Maxi.