Noctambule
Ma route se fait longue et elle est parsemée d’embuches, alors j’avance à petits pas pour éviter que t'y trébuches.
En ayant côtoyé le fond je ne pourrais que remonter, voilà pourquoi j’agite ma plume en essayant de m’envoler.
J’avoue souvent la tristesse vient habiller mes thèmes, car mon cœur est mis à nu, je circule en feux de détresse.
On m’dit que la vie est un jeu, et dès le premier tour je me suis fait griller par Dieu, il m’a repris mes deux amours.
Une fois de plus je fais des miennes et je vais noircir le tableau, passe-moi les lunettes de Piaf que je puisse voir la vie en rose car le décor est terni.
Épargne-moi tes foutaises, je suis un de ces auteurs qui prépare ses textes sur des braises.
On m’dit que mon rap est un art, qu’il faut que je l’exploite, mais avant tout en premier plan, il n’est que mon seul exutoire.
Sache que ce que je transpire n’est pas que du bonheur, j’ai commencé à retranscrire depuis le départ de ma sœur.
Refrain :
Parti d’en bas, je suis bourré d’ambitions, une grosse pensée à ceux qui me suivent. J’y pense la nuit. Jusqu'à ou je vais tenir, j’ai beau me dire, car aucune intentions je vais finir par mourir, et si je m’en vais, embrasse mes proches, insomniaque je m’allonge et puis j’y pense la nuit, j’y pense la nuit, j’y pense la nuit.
A ce qu’on m’a dit le rap est l’art de tout partage, manier la langue, jouer des mots, j’en aurais tort d’en être avare car les Molière du nouveau siècle se font rare.
Hormis traité de choses légères, de biatch, de monnaies ils oublient d’faire du rap. Je porte la voix d’un peuple aux bannières tris colorisés, un algérien réunionnais, mais terrienne est l’identité.
Doublement bafoué dans l’histoire de l’humanité, qui rêve d’union et de vivre en paix, narrateur de thèmes oubliés. Choc des civilisations, les larmes coulent dans mes veines, pour noyer mon histoire il faudra bien plus que des piscines pleines.
Et ma mémoire, malgré que vide soit le vécu, j’en vois assez de grosses crapules qui font la guerre pour leur propre pécule.
Je revois les miens, y a 400 ans dans les champs de cotons, et mon autre parti épouvanté par la France des colons.
Les pieds dans la fournaise, et tête à Bel-Abbes je garde mes yeux bleus bien ouverts, et mes mains libres pour enrichir mes thèses.
Refrain
Je reprends le microphone, pas juste pour parler pour parler, renié par les rageux mais relancé par tous mes vrais car mon courage lui n’est pas né tout seul, j’avais besoin qu’on m’encourage à poser mes maux sur des feuilles.
Alors j’ai repris mes stylos comme un boxeur reprends ses gants, je reviens crocheter la prod et j’enchaine deux rounds sur les temps, bien trop folle est l’attitude alors je viens montrer les dents.
Bien trop de faux culs dans la street j’en deviens même bête et méchant.
Je m’y perds mais je m’y plie, un jour le rap aura ta peau, c’est ce que m’a dit mon putain de doc avant de peser le poids de mes mots.
Je suis bloqué dans mon délire, entre la sagesse et le crime, alors j’exécute toutes mes peines à l’encre noire d’un stylo bille.
Pour finir et clôturer ces 16 mesures comme il se doit, j’en passe une pour tous les faux-culs qui m’auront pointé du doigt.
Je préfère partir d’en bas pour accéder au ciel plutôt que d’être sur un nuage et finir à 6 pieds sous terre.
Refrain
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