2 + 2

West Coast hip hop, trap-soul, cinematic hip hop

Yeah… 2 + 2 don’t always equal four… but I made it work.
It’s that West Side elevation  pressure makes diamonds.
Let’s ride.

Born in the smoke, now I breathe in peace,
Used to pray for the light on these cracked-up streets.
They said I’d fold, I just flipped the math
Now it’s plaques on the wall from my aftermath.

Mama had pain in her grocery bag,
I turned that hunger into digital swag.
Never had a map but I paved that route,
Took L’s, turned ‘em into something to shout.

I was broke with a plot, now I’m rich with a mission,
Still walk slow through the hood, I listen.
Truth on beat, no cap in the cipher,
West Coast gospel, the new street choir.

2 + 2 don’t always add right
But I doubled my grind and lit up the night.
From the bottom, I climbed out smooth
Now I glide where they prayed I’d lose.

2 + 2, still made that flip,
 Now it’s top down, dreams in the whip.
They don’t get it? Let ‘em hate from the curb
I’m proof that pain gets the last word.

I ain’t preachin’, I’m just speakin’ facts,
If you rise with your soul, you don’t need to act.
Kept faith in my pocket with a broke screen phone,
Now I FaceTime vision from a platinum zone.

Told my youngin’s: don’t chase, just build,
Stack your worth, let the silence be real.
Every “no” they gave was a sharpened tool,
Now I cut through doubt like a fresh new jewel.

Tattoos tell the map on my skin,
Scars read better when you know you win.
Legacy loud, I ain’t gotta flex,
I just ride to the rhythm of what’s next.

Let me break it down real quick…
It’s not about what you count
It’s what you do with the pieces.
2 plus 2? Nah…
Try one shot and a hundred reasons.

We rose through the cracks, made fire from fear…
No math could explain how we got here.

2 + 2 don’t always add right
But I doubled my grind and lit up the night.
From the bottom, I climbed out smooth
Now I glide where they prayed I’d lose.

2 + 2, still made that flip,
Now it’s top down, dreams in the whip.
They don’t get it? Let ‘em hate from the curb
I’m proof that pain gets the last word.

“Pain gets the last word…”

Produced by marz/ dxl

2088/7500

Yeah… 2 + 2 don’t always equal four… but I made it work. It’s that West Side elevation pressure makes diamonds. Let’s ride. Born in the smoke, now I breathe in peace, Used to pray for the light on these cracked-up streets. They said I’d fold, I just flipped the math Now it’s plaques on the wall from my aftermath. Mama had pain in her grocery bag, I turned that hunger into digital swag. Never had a map but I paved that route, Took L’s, turned ‘em into something to shout. I was broke with a plot, now I’m rich with a mission, Still walk slow through the hood, I listen. Truth on beat, no cap in the cipher, West Coast gospel, the new street choir. 2 + 2 don’t always add right But I doubled my grind and lit up the night. From the bottom, I climbed out smooth Now I glide where they prayed I’d lose. 2 + 2, still made that flip, Now it’s top down, dreams in the whip. They don’t get it? Let ‘em hate from the curb I’m proof that pain gets the last word. I ain’t preachin’, I’m just speakin’ facts, If you rise with your soul, you don’t need to act. Kept faith in my pocket with a broke screen phone, Now I FaceTime vision from a platinum zone. Told my youngin’s: don’t chase, just build, Stack your worth, let the silence be real. Every “no” they gave was a sharpened tool, Now I cut through doubt like a fresh new jewel. Tattoos tell the map on my skin, Scars read better when you know you win. Legacy loud, I ain’t gotta flex, I just ride to the rhythm of what’s next. Let me break it down real quick… It’s not about what you count It’s what you do with the pieces. 2 plus 2? Nah… Try one shot and a hundred reasons. We rose through the cracks, made fire from fear… No math could explain how we got here. 2 + 2 don’t always add right But I doubled my grind and lit up the night. From the bottom, I climbed out smooth Now I glide where they prayed I’d lose. 2 + 2, still made that flip, Now it’s top down, dreams in the whip. They don’t get it? Let ‘em hate from the curb I’m proof that pain gets the last word. “Pain gets the last word…” Produced by marz/ dxl

0/500