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He typed the first line: “I used to hide my shadow ‘til the moon showed me the way…”
He pulled out his phone and opened a new note. For months, he’d wanted to write his own rhymes—raw, honest, uncomfortable. But fear had stopped him. What if people laughed? What if they said he was just copying Hopsin? hopsin gazing at the moonlight songs
For the first time in months, he smiled—not because things were fixed, but because he finally understood: you don’t wait until you’re healed to start creating. You create because you’re healing. He typed the first line: “I used to
On the rooftop of his small apartment, Marcus sat alone—legs crossed, hoodie up, eyes fixed on the pale crescent moon hanging low in the sky. In his ears, Hopsin’s voice rapped through cracked headphones: “I’m tired of being a prisoner of my own mind…” What if people laughed
He typed the first line: “I used to hide my shadow ‘til the moon showed me the way…”
He pulled out his phone and opened a new note. For months, he’d wanted to write his own rhymes—raw, honest, uncomfortable. But fear had stopped him. What if people laughed? What if they said he was just copying Hopsin?
For the first time in months, he smiled—not because things were fixed, but because he finally understood: you don’t wait until you’re healed to start creating. You create because you’re healing.
On the rooftop of his small apartment, Marcus sat alone—legs crossed, hoodie up, eyes fixed on the pale crescent moon hanging low in the sky. In his ears, Hopsin’s voice rapped through cracked headphones: “I’m tired of being a prisoner of my own mind…”
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