Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Hollow Shell (Cash Clutch), artist - Illogic. Album song Celestial Clockwork, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 12.04.2004
Record label: Illogic
Song language: English
Hollow Shell (Cash Clutch) |
I’m stuck in an emotional valley with melancholy |
Wandering this wilderness with Gilgamesh |
Baring a basket of berries rotted to the pits |
Hobbling through stretches of sand dunes |
Stand consumed by a walking stick |
Surrounded by a desert of waste |
Searching for some clear liquid to mirage the dirt taste |
I’m too overwhelmed to control the helm |
As the sun smiles battled in old time |
I’m using my shadow as a sun dial |
I don’t hold the energy to run around |
It was lost in those seven digits |
Where I scattered my baby pictures |
In order to leave a small trace of face |
And for predecessors to know that Illogic |
Once held rank in this place |
I await to be devoured by the beast of the industry |
Where the goddess of lust speaks sweet nothings tempting me |
Where identity crisis is the norm |
And where we only know ourselves on stage |
But we forget after we perform |
Where blood and smoke screens cloak the inner discontent |
Where compensation for your due payments are overspent |
Where image is everything and your thirst no longer matters |
Where we can’t stand our true selves so mirror images shatter |
Where life is no longer a blessing but a curse and |
Where Hip-Hop music is no longer fun but work |
Where life becomes a dream and reality doesn’t exist |
And surrealism is the poison that you clutch in each fist |
The stench of burning sentences reeks of lost life |
Locked in this cage of clones by request |
Clutching cash overshadows the love of clutching the mic |
My mind and spirit elopes as I continue to stroke my flesh |
I become a hollow shell from which the ocean can be heard |
But that sound is only an illusion of my depth |
Is it by choice that I walk through this life as a waste of words |
Or is a rebirth in store for the piece of my soul that’s left |
The glass that sits on this table is half empty |
With a laugh I notice the pessimism within me |
Lost looking for the love that once embraced my muse |
Amused by the spectacle that my reflection’s become |
No longer enthused by the culture I held in my grasp |
At one time I held the mic my grip replaced it with cash |
I recall my first encounter with the realm of skill |
Where the concern was keeping it ill before keeping it real |
Where MC’s would roll six hours just to bust |
Where the crowd responds it payment, getting cash was a plus |
Where we concentrate on rhymes to make the fans contemplate |
Where battles are dinner settings for your heroes to be ate |
Where life long friends are made and your crews are born |
Where pens act as umbrellas to shield you from the storm |
Where words are counsellors and writing is therapy |
Where chopped loops and drum breaks are the arms that carry me |
Where we spit till our throat hurts and saliva droughts |
Where you yearn to hear your verse sprout from one of your fan’s mouths |
Where I want to return but damn I never left |
I was lost in the page just immersed in my song concept |
The stench of burning sentences reeks of lost life |
Locked in this cage of clones by request |
Clutching cash overshadows the love of clutching the mic |
Your mind and spirit elopes as you continue to stroke your flesh |
You become a hollow shell from which the ocean can be heard |
But that sound is only an illusion of your depth |
Is it by choice that you walk through this life as a waste of words |
Or is a rebirth in store for the piece of your soul that’s left |