But then he remembered something Hopsin had said in an interview once: “I make music for the people who feel invisible.”
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…” hopsin gazing at the moonlight songs
But tonight was different. Tonight, he wasn’t running from the pain. He was sitting with it. But then he remembered something Hopsin had said
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? Marcus sat alone—legs crossed