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?
It had been a rough week. A fight with his mom. Another rejection letter from the art school he’d dreamed of since he was fifteen. And that old, familiar feeling of being misunderstood—like the world had labeled him “too weird” and thrown away the key. hopsin gazing at the moonlight songs
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…” He pulled out his phone and opened a new note