I want the runns... ...I want to just be able to pick up my pen and fly with all the knowledge on the surface of my mind. I wanna go...flow...I want my rhymes to be insurmountable, untouchable, inevitable. Yet, deep for the audience to feel the blisters and callouses on the bottom of my heels From trampling through fields of roses, tryna be a rose, but couldn't get beyond the thorns. As the blood trickles down from my hands down to the ground I look for insight, inspiration, or a prophet that would give me a devine revelation, but nowhere to be found, I, instead, lye there licking the blood off the ground, licking the blood off the ground, feelin' lower than low, drowning in crimson red, crimson red, crimson red... I'm stuck...I can't flow...I want the runns to allow myself to be lifted up from my pool of despair and taken up my cares, my cares taken up... ...Running at the mouth til I run out of words saying every rap verse, every scripture, speaking of every trial, every memorable picture... ...Every memorable picture of my past... Like the time I sat at the threshhole of my mother's room to see my mother in rage just before the ax came down... ...Oh how I drowned in my tears, dreaming of all the fears that kept me from speaking when I wanted to speak. Now that I have the runns I'm afraid I'll tell it all and speaking to the wrong ear would be this poet's downfall.