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qayin rohle - the exile learned to read the sky lyrics

look, they stuffed my breath inside a frame
before the lungs collapsed
then propped my corpse against a wall
to let the funds amass
sick joke
every bid just let the numbers stack
but never gave a dollar to the past that left my stomach black
my name signed in cocaine
my ghost still in the residue
they love my work, but they resent the hue
they paint me saintly posthumous
but hate me when i’m present too
waited till my wrist was slit
to marvel at the depth of blue
samo tagged the city
sermons sprayin’ off the curbs
crosses where my name should be
i learned to paint in loss and verbs
took my mother’s silence
turned the echoes into words
but these critics only study
what they scr+ped up off the urn
man, i carved my name in cement
before they pried it from the stone
father cracked a leather sermon
left the silence in my bones
before the canvas, i was vandal
scriptin’ violence in the tones
body bags inside the pigments
made a shrine of every stroke
they applauded when the crown was just a metaphor
but crucified me when they saw it wasn’t metaphors
bleached my skin for catalogues
the richest thieves collect my flaws
then tuck my pain behind a glass
and say, “impressionist of war”
auction off my anguish
watch ‘em bank it with a poker face
flatline hit the canvas
now the price is in the opal range
sculpted me in martyrdom
my ghost became a token name
but never sold my living hands
the worth of what they stole in veins
d+mn, my childhood was chalk lines and stained sheets
paint peeled, stained t++th, pain sealed, brain steeped
dreams slurred, veins weak, stretched out in the same streets
sketchin’ god’s image, but the pigment wasn’t made cheap
now they wanna sanctify the blood that they ignored
and label me a g+nius with my hunger on the floor
i sold ‘em all my demons just to keep the ovens warm
but even in the afterlife, they come collectin’ more
warhol told me fame was just a carcass dressed in suits
said they only keep you fresh enough to auction off your youth
now they photoshop my arms so you don’t see the needle wounds
but every renaissance was painted in the artist’s beetle juice
the heroin was heaven till it turned me to a headline
made my veins a gallery, each track a frame in red lines
they sold me to the highest, took my body, left my dead mind
and watched the numbers rise, like the market on my bedtime
but fk it—let ‘em frame the sh+ll and hide the work inside
tell ‘em, “basquiat still breathin’ through these verses i provide”
they hang my flesh in halls
and pray the worth’ll multiply
but when the artist leaves
the art is where his curses lie

its 80, its 80, its 80, its 80
its about 80
its 80
27
80, 27
its 80

- qayin rohle lyrics

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