Trap:

when you spoke, i felt like we were alone,
your voice talking to only me, thought our bond had grown,
we grew up together ... both kids of the eighties,
you stood more magnificent then all those other ladies,
everyone demanded your attention, but mine more often,
so i wrote letters w/ gifts and such, hoping you'd soften,
all this animosity you'd been showing back to me,
you don't wanna meet no more ? was this all an act to me ?,
i tried catching you on movie sets but couldn't get through,
at award shows, get close, then restraining orders ensued,
what have i done to you ? weren't we one and the same ?,
sitting on your steps that stormy night i realized the pain,
how we'd never be as one ... and our courtship was done,
so i stood up, head full of rage, hand on my gun,
when you answered the door, you seemed less then surprised,
i pointed it at your head, a lull came between your eyes,
and as the blood splattered, and the rain erased me, painless,
flashing lights and TV mics got me close, to almost famous...

Anonymous:

He dreamed of performing live, and living the lie of something he wasnt
till music Burst his bubble . . made it go pop like a collab with Justin
It wasnt the fact he couldnt rap, he had a deal and a signed contract
but he only put out tracks for the underground, and labels didnt want that
They wanted commercial cats, to sell out and make them money to burn
But he made music for his own enjoyment, not for the green he could earn.
He refused to sell out, and insisted he 'd only make music he loved
Even though chicks called his cock Mr.Lightyear, wanting to Blow his Buzz
But the record compamy couldnt persuade him, he figured "Fuck 'em"
and it was this Pinch of Salt that fed his Appetite for Destruction
He blew his shot at sell out success to remain true and nameless
It was so close, yet still so far out of reach, he was almost famous. .

Talent

the work was, hard to say the least, a bard for pain's release
starved and drained each week i'd carve away my needs
but the pen seemed to be my enemy, the end of me
playing three on five, suffered two men's worth of penalties
it fled in me, but each fleeting muse would fuse a noose
to bruise, abuse my feudal mind and loop my spine in twos
suffering pencil whip, the end of it was just a myth
wrote volumes each day, while solemn in gaze, adjust my grip
and start again, a new piece to unravel
the scaffold is high, but it takes work to build castles
so i build and i build, till i've built on this hill
for ages, so sages would die for my experience
but wieriness had set in, they called me delirious
its seering, just, to have no one see your purpose
"YOU'RE WORTHLESS" they'd scream when i'd dream of the perfect
plot, to unfold, now its done, no more dreaming
took my book to a publisher, i'm done with just scheming
march in the front door, slap it smack on the table
the publisher laughs me off, "almost famous" is my label...

Euphemism

He sits with his pens & pencils and he sees the possibilities
As he bangs some instrumentals through his PC auxiliaries
It’s another night for him, fresh from recordin
A flawless night, with the cordless mic his father bought him
By morning he ain’t talking. That nights events are staying focal
Coz he’ll soon regret laying groupies instead of laying vocals
Once he’s in, its easy.. after-parties are agents heavens
He’s happy to sling his tapes but the girls are dangerous weapons
Naïve, he don’t know his limitations, but that back stage girl wants him
He ain’t got no invitation, but she’s at the window flauntin
fights his way on to the guest list and gets chicks breathless
the aftermath of sex uspet his appetite for breakfast
he’s was always selective of the celebrities he slept with
coz no contraceptive lead to pregnancy test kits
the absence of protection. He’d never neglected
what bothers him more, is that he failed to suggest it
his body became infected, this kids’ been left with
a death wish he won’t forget quick and septic testes
’99 he got a nameless face amongst strangers
’03 he’s dead, name read across the papers. ’03 almost famous..

Uth

my dreams are measured in kilometers , & pace on the turf ,
& astronomers joke that I’ll be the face of the Earth ,
lacing my worth ; them nikes can’t psyche me out worse ,
than my father , who lives for the drive of seeing me cry with hurt ,
but what’s worse , than my social life lately ,
is that my true love of four years is expecting our first baby ,
a distraction maybe , but I’ve got tunnel vision on a running mission ,
finishing first through that tape is all but funnel wishing ,
fun is missing from my persona , I’m more straight talking , mild ,
an unapproachable loner , feet sore from late walking trials ,
i hate being a dork & described as one , but what are my options ? ,
when the race is tomorrow , & jibes from dad are forcing abortion ,
my doors shunned , he’s watching , he loves to see me rocked & ,
even as a child he’d taunt me , saying I was up for adoption ,
a lot’s gone through my mind as a youth , though I’d stay calm ,
but this time it sounds as truth ; saying he’d cause my baby harm ,
if I lost , but this qualm was very much a procedure as such ,
until I heard a tumble down the stairs ; my feelings were touched ,
concealing my gut , I rushed to the landing & , he was kneeling ,
sobbing over her while she was shocked with problems breathing ,
Seething from this sick motive of his , I rushed to the garage ,
& took anything of weight or size , lusting anything to cause damage ,
I paused , then managed to get myself in a compromising position ,
while ending his dreams , I grinned a sigh of relief at my decision ,
all the wishing he could imagine , would make me more shameless ,
just as my legs felt numb he sighed “you were almost famous”