According to a source at Worldstarhiphop.com, there is a new up and coming DJ that is going to take all cities by storm. Big deal you say? It happens all the time? Sure, you're right - but the talent has never been SIX YEARS OLD! Yes, you heard correctly, six. The time it takes to practice and master skills like "scratching" and "mixing" are older than this young mans age, but he is still "killing it." I give a big props to this up and coming youth talent. I encourage him to stay hungry and misplace himself from all those who surround him with negative energy. Without further ado, here he is.
SAY.NO.MORE.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Mixtape Madness
Bloggers! I finally accomplished success within' the perimeters of my "music career." I've been rapping for as long as I can remember, and I've always wanted to be able to hear myself ; whether it be CD, Radio, iPod - I didn't care. The main obstacle I struggled to veer was not having the money to buy all of the studio equipment needed, or to pay somebody to use it, that had it.
However, technology has recently jump-started my love for hip-hop. After some hunger-filled research, I learned to record songs and freestyles over my android, e-mail them from my android to my computer, and then use an mp3 file converter to take the recorded materials from my e-mail, and place them onto my iTunes. This was a huge success, and I immediately took advantage of my new found knowledge.
The sound quality still needs a ton of work - tiny amounts of static, vocals overpower the beat in the background, could use some sound effects in certain spots, and yes, the over-used "auto-tune" here and there perhaps even. Regardless, you can still see the burning ember within all of the ash. It's a start, and I ran with it. I pride myself with creative, advanced word-play that really makes a listener think about what I'm saying. My goal is to make music that people not only recite in the car while going 65 mph on the freeway, but that people really vibe to, comprehend, and get something out of. The listeners who truly love HipHop will embrace the effort and emotion that I place into each and every song.
Tracklisting:
1. Faded
2. Gorilla
3. Jersey Shit
4. It's Been a Pleasure
5. Black and Yellow
6. From the Ground Up
7. Stackz
8. Epilepsy
9. Why
10. Twerks
However, technology has recently jump-started my love for hip-hop. After some hunger-filled research, I learned to record songs and freestyles over my android, e-mail them from my android to my computer, and then use an mp3 file converter to take the recorded materials from my e-mail, and place them onto my iTunes. This was a huge success, and I immediately took advantage of my new found knowledge.
The sound quality still needs a ton of work - tiny amounts of static, vocals overpower the beat in the background, could use some sound effects in certain spots, and yes, the over-used "auto-tune" here and there perhaps even. Regardless, you can still see the burning ember within all of the ash. It's a start, and I ran with it. I pride myself with creative, advanced word-play that really makes a listener think about what I'm saying. My goal is to make music that people not only recite in the car while going 65 mph on the freeway, but that people really vibe to, comprehend, and get something out of. The listeners who truly love HipHop will embrace the effort and emotion that I place into each and every song.
Tracklisting:
1. Faded
2. Gorilla
3. Jersey Shit
4. It's Been a Pleasure
5. Black and Yellow
6. From the Ground Up
7. Stackz
8. Epilepsy
9. Why
10. Twerks
Monday, February 21, 2011
Broken, and No Receipt
My world set sail up shit's creek about a week ago, I apologize for being behind on these blogs. Are you guys familiar with that one passion you have where you would do absolutely anything to excel in? Well aside from writing, mine has always been baseball. Baseball was always first for me; it came before everything, even eating and sleeping. Literally, breathing was the only thing I put before it, and that's because I knew if I put breathing on the shelf I wouldn't survive long enough to play baseball anymore. My father, who I was extremely close with up until age 11 or so, always encouraged me to pursue the game. He was the foundation block in developing my dreams based around baseball. However, my parents divorced and I grew angry at the world. I hated everybody and everything, except baseball. This hatred was what threw me into writing. I always have such vivid images in my head, such a hatred mixed with disturbed burning emotions that being a descriptive writer comes almost naturally to me. So now, low and behold, I have two cares in the world (baseball and writing), and it was fuck everything else. On my own, I bust my ass for 14 solid years on and off the baseball diamond. I go through one arm surgery in high school, along with 2 years of physical therapy, and I was still able to achieve quite a few personal accolades throughout my career. I was prone to set backs. I was told they made me stronger, but no matter how hard I worked to get back to square one I always felt weaker. I hate that fucking saying. "It only makes you stronger." Last time I checked, getting your dick kicked in by life never felt good, or had benefits. I'm bitter. I apologize. Let me get back on track. It became like a job, a career if you would, (minus the salary) to scratch and crawl my way onto a collegiate baseball team. However, I achieved my dream this year. I did it, I made it, and I never felt so proud of myself. All alone, through mental and physical setbacks, I conquered what I promised myself I would - play baseball at a collegiate level. So why am I rowing myself up shit's creek you ask? Well, imagine throwing a ball while getting stabbed in the shoulder with an exacto knife. Yep, you guessed it. While warming up at practice one morning, I retore my labrum (which was the reason for my first surgery in high school) and my bicep muscle. This was the last straw for me. This puts me out my entire freshman season and potentially part of my sophomore season. Not to mention I'd have to work like a slave just to get back to being able to THROW a ball again, forget throwing it with velocity and control. It bumps me down the pedestal a great deal physically and it totally crushes anything I had left in me mentally. It makes it almost not worth it to me to go through it ALL again. I already missed out on so much in my life that I wanted to do because I ate, slept and dreamed baseball. I want to experience things, and being a 100% dedicated to a team of this stature really makes that difficult. I knew God didn't have this planned for me, and sometimes personal wants, no matter how hard they're striven for, can't always be obtained. So I'm shelfing it. It was a good run, and I will wake up everyday cursing myself in the mirror, but sometimes you just need to be realistic. Financial issues at home as well also force me to place priorities into perspective. Luckily for me, I do have a second talent and a passion. I will put writing first and foremost and work at it just as hard as I did baseball. I'm turning the page and re-painting new dreams. I'm going to do my best to try to live a "normal" life, not a repetitive robotic one. I loved the game, I always will. It just wasn't meant to be. And though I say I'm okay with that, my labrum and bicep weren't the only thing that tore that day, my heart was left in shreds.
With that said, maybe now this Haiku will mean something to those who care to read it. I'm trying something new here and honest feedback will be taken seriously and much appreciated. I can't better myself if I don't know what I'm doing wrong. Enjoy.
With that said, maybe now this Haiku will mean something to those who care to read it. I'm trying something new here and honest feedback will be taken seriously and much appreciated. I can't better myself if I don't know what I'm doing wrong. Enjoy.
Broken, and No Receipt
Spring is here - it's time to play
Mom will wash away
The stains hard work bring this day
Muddy cleats, dirty jerseys
Green grass and cowhide
On the diamond I'm alive
Trekking the road to glory
My route is scenic
Tribulations obstruct me
Mom will wash away
The stains hard work bring this day
Muddy cleats, dirty jerseys
Green grass and cowhide
On the diamond I'm alive
Trekking the road to glory
My route is scenic
Tribulations obstruct me
Dysfunctional families
Torn shoulder muscles
It's hard to win this struggle
"I'd rather you not cut me"
I told the doctor
I told the doctor
With my help, you will prosper
Prosperity was a lie
And my dreams? Shattered.
An inevitable fate
Monday, January 31, 2011
Flow-etry
Just keeping my mind fresh, Jimmy. Sometimes my head gets congested with too many thoughts and lines and it works best for me to just jot them down and relieve myself of the headache. Sorry that it's lyrical again.
You'll find none finer than the Divine Rhymer.
The way I flame, they call me Heat Finder.
I'm the beat binder, diggin' beneath the surface like a deep miner.
My eyes are on the prize, and so I'll rise to the skies like a fleet glider.
You couldn't shoot me down with sidewinders or pathfinders.
A mystic chimer, my thoughts distort visions like excess eyeliner.
Mountain climber - straight to the top, I stay higher.
The defined refiner of the alphabetical designer.
But don't call me a rapper, I'm a poetic lyricist
It just so happens that I rehearse and preach more verses than angry Biblicists.
Speak and curb words of ancients, the fancy classicist.
Dissecting the English language with my tongue like a handy geneticist.
See I'm clever with...making my mind elevate to creative levels, kid.
You're blessed to witness it.
Ignorance...is the only thing stopping you from comprehending this
I combine wordplay with thoughts to conjure perfected synthesis.
It's a work of art when I project my sentences onto paper with the utmost of etiquette.
Let the truth behold, this very well might be the greatest story ever told.
Worth its weight in gold, but never sold.
My mind ventures in threefold.
It'll take more than one man to conjugate this verbal threshold.
You'll find none finer than the Divine Rhymer.
The way I flame, they call me Heat Finder.
I'm the beat binder, diggin' beneath the surface like a deep miner.
My eyes are on the prize, and so I'll rise to the skies like a fleet glider.
You couldn't shoot me down with sidewinders or pathfinders.
A mystic chimer, my thoughts distort visions like excess eyeliner.
Mountain climber - straight to the top, I stay higher.
The defined refiner of the alphabetical designer.
But don't call me a rapper, I'm a poetic lyricist
It just so happens that I rehearse and preach more verses than angry Biblicists.
Speak and curb words of ancients, the fancy classicist.
Dissecting the English language with my tongue like a handy geneticist.
See I'm clever with...making my mind elevate to creative levels, kid.
You're blessed to witness it.
Ignorance...is the only thing stopping you from comprehending this
I combine wordplay with thoughts to conjure perfected synthesis.
It's a work of art when I project my sentences onto paper with the utmost of etiquette.
Let the truth behold, this very well might be the greatest story ever told.
Worth its weight in gold, but never sold.
My mind ventures in threefold.
It'll take more than one man to conjugate this verbal threshold.
Monday, January 17, 2011
2010 High School Graduation Poem
When excitement meets grief, emotions begin clashing.
Hearts begin thrashing for a feeling we hoped would be everlasting.
But here in these chairs we find ourselves asking, where this bend in the road will detour all our trafficking.
Tears stumble down cheeks like our flesh is pure water-proof.
Curse this inevitable truth that forever constitutes our youth.
Who would of knew how quickly time flew -
Inside these walls reflecting a radiant silver and blue.
Memories stay true, from laughter to dispute.
We're all friends through and through.
How quickly we grew.
Closer over the years, it's safe to say that we're family.
It's been your constant support that's helped me maintain my sanity.
Our false perplexities toward vanity have decreased gradually.
Actually, because of you's I will leave here happily.
Our roots go deeper than cavities.
My platoon of astronauts, you's hold me down like gravity.
You carry me.
To say you'll be missed is an oxymoron for bliss.
Yet they insist we write the next chapter of our scripts.
Hypocrite's - I've never had feelings as legitimate as this.
More broken hearts than any amount of super glue could fix.
This is it.
Our song plays as we're walking.
Trapped in our own minds, only the silence is talking.
Two hundred and twenty five deer in headlights, with an audience gawking.
That's when your knees start to shake,
Your stomach rumbles and aches.
We're in a state of inartificial fate.
Yet as we wake from taken all that we can take, we smile because everyone relates.
And that's how it's supposed to be.
Not quite a catastrophe, more of a sanctity that we can jot down in our history.
Four years of inconsistancy religiously.
Working hard vigorously, while having fun twice as giggly.
I'm taking in all that you guys have given me.
More pain than I wished to sustain.
More knowledge in my brain than I expected to obtain.
More laughs than my voice box would allow me to retain.
Let's live in the moment, forever, pause it like a game.
We'll all live life royally, an unstoppable reign.
Now we're dream chasin, minus all the frustration and constant contemplation.
A proclamation of bitter sweet realization.
But we're graduating, not evacuating.
Those who matter keep in touch, those who don't I wish you luck.
Yeah it's tough and it sucks.
But when you fall down seven times, on the eighth you've got to get up.
Cheetah Town 2010, full speed ahead.
I wouldn't have it any other way, no matter what I've said.
And if you give us the chance, I bet we'd all do it again.
I love you friends.
Hearts begin thrashing for a feeling we hoped would be everlasting.
But here in these chairs we find ourselves asking, where this bend in the road will detour all our trafficking.
Tears stumble down cheeks like our flesh is pure water-proof.
Curse this inevitable truth that forever constitutes our youth.
Who would of knew how quickly time flew -
Inside these walls reflecting a radiant silver and blue.
Memories stay true, from laughter to dispute.
We're all friends through and through.
How quickly we grew.
Closer over the years, it's safe to say that we're family.
It's been your constant support that's helped me maintain my sanity.
Our false perplexities toward vanity have decreased gradually.
Actually, because of you's I will leave here happily.
Our roots go deeper than cavities.
My platoon of astronauts, you's hold me down like gravity.
You carry me.
To say you'll be missed is an oxymoron for bliss.
Yet they insist we write the next chapter of our scripts.
Hypocrite's - I've never had feelings as legitimate as this.
More broken hearts than any amount of super glue could fix.
This is it.
Our song plays as we're walking.
Trapped in our own minds, only the silence is talking.
Two hundred and twenty five deer in headlights, with an audience gawking.
That's when your knees start to shake,
Your stomach rumbles and aches.
We're in a state of inartificial fate.
Yet as we wake from taken all that we can take, we smile because everyone relates.
And that's how it's supposed to be.
Not quite a catastrophe, more of a sanctity that we can jot down in our history.
Four years of inconsistancy religiously.
Working hard vigorously, while having fun twice as giggly.
I'm taking in all that you guys have given me.
More pain than I wished to sustain.
More knowledge in my brain than I expected to obtain.
More laughs than my voice box would allow me to retain.
Let's live in the moment, forever, pause it like a game.
We'll all live life royally, an unstoppable reign.
Now we're dream chasin, minus all the frustration and constant contemplation.
A proclamation of bitter sweet realization.
But we're graduating, not evacuating.
Those who matter keep in touch, those who don't I wish you luck.
Yeah it's tough and it sucks.
But when you fall down seven times, on the eighth you've got to get up.
Cheetah Town 2010, full speed ahead.
I wouldn't have it any other way, no matter what I've said.
And if you give us the chance, I bet we'd all do it again.
I love you friends.
Separating from the Ordinary
He's considered a misfit.
That's an outcast for you dip-shits.
He keeps it real, while others don't even keep it realistic.
He chooses not to get high.
The boy's afraid of heights.
But he can't help being fly, so he'll close his eyes once his dreams take flight.
Nobody's stopping he; His mind's possessive - with every thought comes an apostrophe.
He writes asylum bars.
Mentally he's so progressive.
Lock him up and throw away the key.
"To the moon and back," a man once suggested.
Sparking boundless ideas precociously.
Through hard work, the boy captured the art of civilized linguistics.
That's the refined scientific understanding of language, for those with minds that are premature.
As the narrator I have to be sure each line stays on path:
The boy would be mad if I didn't virtualize consistence.
But I musn't stray from my topic sentence.
Goals became set and a dream was fermented.
The boys world made so much sense before it ended.
Before you ask me how, let me clarify -
It is possible to die but still remain alive.
Sometimes the outer surface doesn't match what's inside.
This is why he lies,
And boast's "I do not cry."
I hope the smoke is starting to clear.
He doesn't want you to view the world from his eyes.
His pains sincere, but from your vision it veers.
He let a smile that he once so frequently adhered, lose it's vividness, and now it slowly dissapears.
Let it be no surprise; his face became just another among the crowd, but he'll survive.
He has a passion for being different.
And expresses this passion by making verbs collide with words that rhyme.
With a notebook in hand, and headphones that block out all sound,
A boy has never made ink-blotted words appear so loud.
That's an outcast for you dip-shits.
He keeps it real, while others don't even keep it realistic.
He chooses not to get high.
The boy's afraid of heights.
But he can't help being fly, so he'll close his eyes once his dreams take flight.
Nobody's stopping he; His mind's possessive - with every thought comes an apostrophe.
He writes asylum bars.
Mentally he's so progressive.
Lock him up and throw away the key.
"To the moon and back," a man once suggested.
Sparking boundless ideas precociously.
Through hard work, the boy captured the art of civilized linguistics.
That's the refined scientific understanding of language, for those with minds that are premature.
As the narrator I have to be sure each line stays on path:
The boy would be mad if I didn't virtualize consistence.
But I musn't stray from my topic sentence.
Goals became set and a dream was fermented.
The boys world made so much sense before it ended.
Before you ask me how, let me clarify -
It is possible to die but still remain alive.
Sometimes the outer surface doesn't match what's inside.
This is why he lies,
And boast's "I do not cry."
I hope the smoke is starting to clear.
He doesn't want you to view the world from his eyes.
His pains sincere, but from your vision it veers.
He let a smile that he once so frequently adhered, lose it's vividness, and now it slowly dissapears.
Let it be no surprise; his face became just another among the crowd, but he'll survive.
He has a passion for being different.
And expresses this passion by making verbs collide with words that rhyme.
With a notebook in hand, and headphones that block out all sound,
A boy has never made ink-blotted words appear so loud.
The Truth About Reality
If the truth hurts, then reality’s a murderer.
Life’s a bitch; you can’t believe a word from her.
She’ll take everything you own like a burglar;
There’s no converting her.
She’ll spur you to drink; please disperse from the liquor sir.
Shots of gin back to back and now your world’s a blur.
One too many down the hatch;
Here’s where your verbal slurs.
It’s the worst when your words converge.
I grow concerned as verbs merge without clarity, but plentiful in mirth.
One can only pray for a sober surge to stop the hurt.
Trust me, it’s worth the purge.
Yet you urge to be observed as your thoughts occur.
It's absurd how many were quick to concur.
I guess your actions are felt - like Ray Charles’ furniture.
See this verse is for the amateur’s, oh so oblivious to the flash of cameras.
The one’s who couldn’t depict what glamor was, because they’re stuck in a world far from glamorous.
Thus, it’s ridiculous, how nothing’s enough.
Material items keep you bounded like fisti-cuffs.
The real world is corrupt, and it’s hard too adjust.
There's not enough hands to conduct this puppet show in which we grew up.
But for those who are neglecting such, I’m calling your bluff.
The only reason I proceed to write this stuff, is because I can’t ‘afford’ for my brain to erupt
Am I making ‘sense’ ? (cents)
Sometimes I ramble, and it’s hard to maintain ‘present’ tense
I have a ‘gift-rappin’ (wrapping), and it’s how I vent.
Mastered English; I should start writing in French.
Now let us evaluate the concept of the youth at its best.
See, even with the ice on their necks and rocks in their ears, they sit alone at night and fight tears.
Slam their eyes shut and pray their feelings disappear.
They've been at it for years! Let us be sincere.
As a society we don't find it weird, that half our population lives in constant fear?
We're blind when they thrust their heads under pillows, while gasping for air.
In hope to end reality, and all that remains there.
They just wish that someone cared, and would attempt to repair all the wounds they adhere.
They're forever unable to chase dreams, because they're always running from nightmares.
You see, I know all about these feelings they neglect to share.
The truth is, my name's Reality, and I’m always aware.
Life’s a bitch; you can’t believe a word from her.
She’ll take everything you own like a burglar;
There’s no converting her.
She’ll spur you to drink; please disperse from the liquor sir.
Shots of gin back to back and now your world’s a blur.
One too many down the hatch;
Here’s where your verbal slurs.
It’s the worst when your words converge.
I grow concerned as verbs merge without clarity, but plentiful in mirth.
One can only pray for a sober surge to stop the hurt.
Trust me, it’s worth the purge.
Yet you urge to be observed as your thoughts occur.
It's absurd how many were quick to concur.
I guess your actions are felt - like Ray Charles’ furniture.
See this verse is for the amateur’s, oh so oblivious to the flash of cameras.
The one’s who couldn’t depict what glamor was, because they’re stuck in a world far from glamorous.
Thus, it’s ridiculous, how nothing’s enough.
Material items keep you bounded like fisti-cuffs.
The real world is corrupt, and it’s hard too adjust.
There's not enough hands to conduct this puppet show in which we grew up.
But for those who are neglecting such, I’m calling your bluff.
The only reason I proceed to write this stuff, is because I can’t ‘afford’ for my brain to erupt
Am I making ‘sense’ ? (cents)
Sometimes I ramble, and it’s hard to maintain ‘present’ tense
I have a ‘gift-rappin’ (wrapping), and it’s how I vent.
Mastered English; I should start writing in French.
Now let us evaluate the concept of the youth at its best.
See, even with the ice on their necks and rocks in their ears, they sit alone at night and fight tears.
Slam their eyes shut and pray their feelings disappear.
They've been at it for years! Let us be sincere.
As a society we don't find it weird, that half our population lives in constant fear?
We're blind when they thrust their heads under pillows, while gasping for air.
In hope to end reality, and all that remains there.
They just wish that someone cared, and would attempt to repair all the wounds they adhere.
They're forever unable to chase dreams, because they're always running from nightmares.
You see, I know all about these feelings they neglect to share.
The truth is, my name's Reality, and I’m always aware.
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