TheLegendsLeague | Bryan Espiritu

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Ghost Rights
a piece by Bryan be. Espiritu

This is a piece I wrote this morning while sitting in the car outside of Wal-Mart and needed to get recorded somewhere. It was inspired by someone who asked me yesterday if I’d ever considered ghost writing for rappers. The answer is not really. I write because I love it and I respect dope artists, emcees and song writers for what they do. I’ve been writing far longer than I’ve been designing, but I hold onto it in a weird way as something sacred since it’s one of the last things I do creatively that hasn’t made me any money. I’m not a rapper. I’m a writer.

For those of you who can’t understand what the hell I’m saying, here’s the piece in writing:

I guess I could do more for a hefty fee,
And a good talk, see I’m awkward like lefties be
When they box. That’s south paw.
I’m north and east.
You got your mouth all grilled and I’m the Foreman feast.
The G’s say I’m adorable,
Say your boy could teach cus I’m smart.
But for a start, “Come to the dorm at least”.
I don’t want nun, like priests,
But I was born to preach.
I’m a father, spirit and son,
And I’ve been sworn to each.
Don’t get it crossed, still turn a crew to a crucifix,
And turn a brew into a useless 6.
All empty.
So high, wish I could die.
In Autumn the fall tempts me.
I won’t deny I been obliged to lie to beat a sentence.
My guys know around me, honesty’s like a vengeance
I’m always carrying out when the bull staring me down.
I’m a matador, and that whore’s more a rodeo clown.
Face and hair made up,
More Fiorio bound.
I’m Morpheus when I’m outcasted,
Fast and furious, I’ll turn to a programmed killing machine.
Azureus downloadable.
Mangler. I rule. The damager.
I aim to handle the vain lames and purposeless.
You’re like Obama, mouth bruised and purple lips.
I’m like a llama, dumb rude and urged to spit.
They say, “No Pain, No Gain”, so it won’t hurt to quit.
I don’t rhyme, I design.
I’ll turn your shirts to shit.
Or do the opposite. Got money? Then offer it.
Got ugly neck deep dirt? Then you an ostrich.
Have you ostracized for a lobster side dish and cruller.
Maneuvering like the Heimlich.
I give a dime a quick 2 cents of pride and then you step aside.
Next thing, she’s all kindsa bitch.
I’m all kindsa broke.
You all kindsa shit.
I’m all kindsa dope.
Get off my rhymes with “Rick”.
I could ghost write your album in a fortnight.
My visions 2 sets of binoculars.
Thats foresight.
Sock it to your boo,
From Silk to Shaka Zulu.
Have her chakras shaking.
I’m made of rocket fuel.
I may have got the tools you bite like a termite.
And I wish you wood.
Make this a word fight.
I earn height, move fast as Dale Earnheart crashed.
I’m full burn-proof and suited when the verbs spark.
This is throwaway cold.
I’m in the snow and sleigh, packed with more gifts than a Nick that’s just a Pole away.
Do it the polar way even on my grizzly.
Bruin in a crew of teddies.
Ya’ll confetti.
That’s small paper, I’d rather we didn’t chop it up.
Let’s not apologize.
You wanna talk for what?
I’m an artist with pieces,
Weaken the hardest shit, pierce right through the cartilige, teeth, hearts or harnesses.
Bet I’m the honest-est,
Outta Toronto West.
Hate is a stripper-top, bitch,
Go get it of your chest.

Peace.