[Intro] Yeah. Everybody undefeated till the comments turn off. Everybody self-made with seven people on payroll. Everybody “built different.” Cool. Built like what? [Verse 1] I wake up irritated, calibrated for combat, coffee black, thoughts sharper than a contract. You call that a comeback? Baby, return that— whole persona Temu, barcode where your nerve at. I said I’m getting organized—damn, that was fiction, but even my mess got better composition than your rollout, your captions, your forced mystique— you been “next up” so long, next filed missing. I hear “boss moves,” I see unpaid invoices. I hear “big pressure,” I hear indoor voices. I hear “iconic”—that word needs protection, y’all use “legend” for somebody with ring-light choices. Everybody got sauce till the Wi-Fi drop. Everybody profound with a Canva font. Everybody “outside”—outside doing what? Taking seventeen photos by a rented car lot? Stop. [Chorus] I’m almost there—almost rich, almost centered, almost got my whole damn life password-entered. Almost elite, but the plot got edited, I touch one milestone—boom, new prerequisite. I’m almost there—almost zen, almost famous, almost got discipline, then snacks became persuasive. Almost arrived, but success changed addresses, achievement got me chasing it in Rick Owens dresses. [Verse 2] Every time I level up, somebody starts explaining. Every time I win clean, suddenly rules need changing. Every time I speak plain, they call confidence crazy— then quote me three weeks later with the wording rearranged. Every time I make money, somebody sells wisdom. Every time I see “alpha,” I expect a subscription. Every time a guru says, “Escape the system,” the link in his bio got twelve monthly billing options. Please. Your empire got a promo code. Your aura got sponsored. Your mindset coach got a mindset coach and both of them nervous. I’m Steph from the logo with the sentence construction, three meanings deep in a casual discussion. You shoot your shot like Shaq at the line— whole room wince before the ball starts moving. Then blame the lighting. Classic. I’m Serena with the serve when the setup gets tense, Ali with the footwork—not fists, just sense. I let a punchline lean, then slide through defense, you throw four bars straight and still hit the fence. Brain Gundam-sized, engineered for destruction— of weak metaphors, lazy hooks, fake functions. Your “deep” verse read like terms and conditions: long, technically words, nobody finished. Balenciaga shoulders, ridiculous silhouette, walking like debt sent a private investigator. You call yourself timeless with a trend-cycle wardrobe; your whole personality came with a seasonal colorway. [Chorus] I’m almost there—almost rich, almost centered, almost got my whole damn life password-entered. Almost elite, but the plot got edited, I touch one milestone—boom, new prerequisite. I’m almost there—almost zen, almost famous, almost got discipline, then snacks became persuasive. Almost arrived, but success changed addresses, achievement got me chasing it in Rick Owens dresses. [Verse 3] Look— I don’t need motivation from a man in a Lambo yelling “discipline” with a camera in landscape mode. Sir, the vehicle’s leased and the quote is Marcus Aurelius— you added “grindset” and somehow made Rome embarrassing. I don’t need a throne, I need better storage. Still talk slick enough to make silence feel awkward. I got receipts organized by level of nonsense— your whole crew disappear when the facts start walking. Everybody online got immaculate habits, ice bath, sunrise, finance, Pilates. Meanwhile, their screen time screaming like police sirens— nine hours forty-two, but the caption says “balance.” Funny. You “locked in” posting every six minutes. You “mysterious” with eleven story updates. You “too focused for drama,” then write twelve paragraphs in Notes-app font with the names all erased. Girl, stop. That ain’t Zen, that’s PR with incense. That ain’t growth, that’s vocabulary with vengeance. That ain’t quiet luxury, the logo is six inches— your shirt yelling louder than your actual sentence. I’m low-volume vicious, precision with timing, half spoken-word cadence, half courtroom cross-examining. I don’t need to scream; I let syntax get violent— metaphor uppercuts without anybody fighting. See the difference? Technique. [Chorus] I’m almost there—almost rich, almost centered, almost got my whole damn life password-entered. Almost elite, but the plot got edited, I touch one milestone—boom, new prerequisite. I’m almost there—almost zen, almost famous, almost got discipline, then snacks became persuasive. Almost arrived, but success changed addresses, achievement got me chasing it in Rick Owens dresses.
