end games

i know the more i gotta struggle,

the more i gotta gain.

i’m the aftermath of

post-traumatic on an immature brain.

they used to say, “aww, you poor thing.”

poor thing.

now i’m young simba,

playing end games—

end games.

i saw my reflection in the glass stain.

didn’t recognize the face,

but i recognized the brain.

war pains, war pains—

blood memory in my last name.

tears crack the glass pane.

what’s the definition of my last name?

no fame, then more fame.

still move like i’m no name.

one day recognized on a grand stage,

but i been crowned in my own frame.

in the back of my mind,

i gotta be something—

so i put my life on the table

and slid the chips in myself.

i studied the rhymes,

broke down the design,

stitched it into my art

like the blueprint was mine.

young simba playing end games—

what’s the definition of my last name?

it’s strain.

it’s pain.

it’s standing in flame while the smoke 

spells my name.

too many thoughts— they all align.

i don’t spill ink till the pressure’s prime.

every idea went through the rain.

every vision paid with time.

this ain’t luck—

this trained my brain.

this ain’t hype—

this sustained my frame.

i bled for it, stayed the same.

let silence sharpen what i claim.

they chase a wave; 

i built the lane.

they want results; 

i love the weight.

every step, i earned my place.

every scar remembered my name.

king shit—

but it’s not proclaimed.

it’s shown in how i play the game.

same board, different stakes.

i bet on me and raised the plane.

— Mr. Mak