His windowsill ticks and tacks.

His windowsill ticks and tacks.


The rain hits his windowsill
To the base of Immortal Technique's skill
Rhythmic drops to hip and hop (it ticks and tacks)
Notes and strokes define his hope
And the dreams of mics and fear of chokes
Seeks cover beneath women.. he don't deserve
His headphones, a glass of guinnes.. and more girls
Twirled up yarn unfurled, curled up in her arms
Shaken and stirred, a plastic smile hides his scars
The rain hits his windowsill
Popped the lid, now he's filled with pills
Yasmines last words still ringing in his ears
Echoing in the cheers of those who are still his peers
He dreams.. of a violent breeze of silent screams
It used to be empowering, now his dayjob devours him
Nine to five turned to night's out from nine to five
He write his lines trying to find that high
He lost it to
The rain hits his windowsill
Reflecting the mascara on her pillowsheets
Found a damsel in distress with a burden carried
The girl in peril turned out to be the virgin mary
Escaping his past, trying to clear his eyelids
Boy's writings are suicide missions on autopilot
He still travels his mind
Cos he knows
His last hotel room have no check out time