Mcpotar- Telling Lies (Lyrics)

Hook 

[These rappers stoopin low, I hea’ them tellin’ lies,
They say the got paper, that’s what they televise,
I seen broke man, these rappers fantasize,
So I ‘mma mimmick what they flow and just gen’relize] 

I’m from the sub-urban (suburban), but whatchu all yappin,
Man I’m the team cappin’ (captain), and got the crowd clappin,.
Man I be two-steppin, so tell me who’s rapping,
Who ackin’ like he ackin,when he still slackin’,
You got a thousand followers I got me that in dollars,
You got a little blogger page, I got a yoga daje,
Metal I.D in this b-ness, kid I’m not your age,
Unestyra rakadhakwa,like you hellafaded,
Young Pizzy in the bizzle and you hate i made’t,
makin doe up in the kitchen for the cake we bakin,
For the eggs and bacon; shawtie got her apron,
So I’m never lonely like my brother Akon,
I understand why you mad at me; I’m paid better,
I’m paid hourly by-self and you paid later,
You just a hater on the corner, I’m an animator,
But for now in this track been your educator

Hook 

[These rappers stoopin low, I hea’ them tellin’ lies,
They say the got paper, that’s what they televise,
I seen broke man, these rappers fantasize,
So I ‘mma mimmick what they flow and just gen’relize]x 2
Look at my snickers and there’s groopies in my videos,
I got endorsements and I’m meeting with the c.e.os,
Got paid a milli for that advert in your stereos,
Taita cash hate my swag because am killin yours,
got these groopies beg for more these ana primi-rose,
Got this money to the ceiling mati chinyi bosss,
Just got off a call nana ricky ross,
Lil Wayne said forget aboutthese idiots,
back to sanity- like hommies are you serious,
That paper money that you talking is it really yours,
If we gokwawunoshanda it’s hillarious,
Did one track now u claimin you can bury us,
This wasn’t me rappin’ seriously that’s me acting,
Like these lames that I see with empants saggin,
Run the tweets, not the street, like its guns taggin,
You not hustlin lil hommie coz u still strugglin

Wating For Death

I sit at the park bench and look at my wrist,

Turning my head, North, South and East,
This date has got to be the worst,
Stood up since birth she’s getting really late,
When I see her by the gate I know I’ll be the late,
She’s been seeing other people abandoning our date,
I’m playing with life; but death see’s it in your eyes,
She cannot be cheated only Jesus can defeat her,
Sometimes I feel like I’d really love to meet her,
Drive recklessly just to see if I can beat her,
Poke her on Facebook or follow her on twitter,
Maybe that escape can make me feel better?
See because life struggles are hard to hurdle,
In this human race, only the strong take the medal,
I’ve been falling off the saddle; bruises hard to handle,
I am try’na be the sun but I’m glowing like a candle,
Crazy thoughts floating through my mental premises,
Because I seem to fail and blame it on my enemies,
Cursing what they do; wishing death upon their families,
Then I get to my pen; scripting metaphors and similes,
I re-begin my life and read the book of Genesis,
Because I almost lost my head; confusion’s a guillotine,
It takes over your whole through spiritual arteries,
Resides in your utterance; you forget what the matter is,
Sleeping with death because sin is like a mattress,
See; life is eternal stop living it reckless,
You’re saved by the grace not the crucifix necklace,
That’s when I realize I’ve been waiting to live,
Given much in this life, I’ve been waiting to give.

My view on Zimbabwean poetry.

Poetry is in a coma

The Problem

Poetry is in trouble because it doesn’t have a strong audience. Most people that read poetry are other poets supporting their fellow poet colleagues. Regular people are un-aware of new poets in the compared to how they know who’s new I rap music, pop and movies. In this article I am referring to poetry in its most raw form; while some elements of Hip-hop characterize poetry,  hip-hop remains a music genre and music is another art-form.
The poets being the only audience to other poets are like pastors preaching to a congregation of other pastors. One may argue that they build each other up, but it diminishes the motive. The poetry has to reach the general civilian. It must reach the truck driver, the oppressed girl and the father who cannot write poetry, but must derive inspiration from it. There is no logic in a Pastor giving a sermon to other pastors and telling them to repent, the people in the world need that sermon much more.
The Cause

In my opinion poetry is in this state, not because writers are not writing it but because the major media companies are not giving it a fair space. The frequency at which a certain art, culture or discipline gets coverage in the media is related to the hype it receives. When I was a boy I grew up liking soccer alone but when cricket started getting more coverage on national television, my interest and knowledge of the sport grew. Where I’m from, we used to play soccer in empty spaces but we began putting up sticks to create stumps and using tennis balls, and planks as bats to play cricket. It is clear that Hip-hop in Zimbabwe was once suppressed but as soon as hip-hop started getting more air-play, most teenagers I know are aspiring to be rappers and award show was even birthed.
Now poetry is not given enough space on television on radio. They may interview a poet or review his works once in a while, he may feature in the arts segment on news, but there are few spaces dedictated to poetry in mainstream media. Is it because the media is afraid to try new ideas? The media seems to favour old methods 9tried and tested, that give them advertising revenue), what they do not realize is; by making poetry a brand, with the power it has, they will reap the fruits. Let me demonstrate what I mean when I say poetry doesn’t have it’s own spot.
Sport- ESPN, Super sport…  Music- (MTV, Trace, Channel O) Cartoons- (Animax, Cartoon Network, Disney channels),  News- (France24, CNN), Poetry- a small showcase on world AIDS day or something; and we expect it to have as much impact as music, sport and movies. There are even channels andshows for animals and insects, but there’s no space for the rawest form of expression.
In Conclusion
Independent channels , Book Cafés, theatres have tried to keep the art alive., but in the information age, the populous does not regularly look for entertainment on those platforms as much as tv, radio and mainstream press.  If we want to poetry to be passed on to future generations as something that’s viable and something one can make a living from one day, we must air our expression where there is a mass audience.-

SynCity:: The Review

After waiting for Synik’s album for quite a while since I heard the guy, he finally dropped SynCity. It’s basically about syn city (sin city) Harare. I have stayed in Harare for 3 years now and I could relate exactly what he was talking about.

The title track SynCity is loaded with punchlines but in this review I’m basically going to run through my favourite songs and comment on the whole concept, it was quite brilliant. the collaborations shocked me, except Aura and Munetsi. i have always known Synik to be affiliated with those, but I’d never dreamt of a time when he’d feature with MC Chita, J.Brown or Tehn Diamond. All these feature were amazing,  they were rightful for each track featured. i also got to hear Begotten sun for the first time through this album, it’s a timeless classic.

Now let’s get to my favourite tracks. Hamurarwe is the first track that hit me, the metaphors are good… the personification of Harare as a feminine figure just took me away, it’s a mature concept of writing and very creative.He talks about how he came to Harare from Kwekwe to Harare, got accustomed to the life, trying to keep up and what he saw in there.Loosing Sleep started making sense to me in second verse because I know who he must’ve been talking about now and that’s what gives it a deeper meaning, when you know it’s a true love song and then you expect the whole album is real and that alone connects to you.

he is talking about his girl, and how people thought he was dating her because she’s white, how he got out of his job without a solid plan yet, how they met and related… even to the finest detail of her being vegetarian.I was like, “Wow….”  Listened to Muripo.… it’s all about his family and you can tell that’s real if you’re Zimbabwean, or if you’re African. I also like the message in Chenjerera… Synik and J.brown held their own 16 Bars in there. J.Brown has this Harare hustler feel to his tone… it creates Harare hustler-ship and represents that. even in Power-cut….. Everybody  from Metaphysics, Synik, J.Brown held the bars…. but the last line by MC Chita makes that track complete… I must say that’s dope.

I’ve never really listen to Marching as one attentively, so I wont talk about it. Power-cut should be self explanatory….. I love the song that feature Tehn diamond and aura, Before Dawn… it’s story like. Munetsi and Begotten Sun in Africa stand up….the rest of the album really. if you haven’t heard it yet visit his website and get the free download http://www.thisissynik.com

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When We Fight (Written By Mcpotar)

I enjoy your company; it’s full of warmth love and light,
I still see the glow even when we fight,
I write poetry too cool down my adrenalin rush,
Love I’ve felt truly has never been much.
When we disconnect, I feel like being in touch again,
You stimulate my thoughts when your images touch my brain,
My veins over-flooded with affection and sweetness,
The walls of my vessels and my heart  are the witness,
So even when we sometimes fight, girl I need you in my life,
We reconcile afterwards and share the last slice,
Quality time, sweet words and love is sacrifice,
When we fight, we make up when we finally compromise.

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Pictures Written by Mcpotar.

 I have a strong passion for computer graphic art and really I am not going to start telling you the history of how I got into it.

All I know is I am a 24 year old at the time and I can do much more than a lot of 28 year olds in this prime (not to brag).

Well in this post are some of my favourite profile pictures. I’ve created banners and logos for individuals and companies especially between 2011 and 2012. It is a fulfilling hobby and I love it.

I have a very large portfolio with different designs and I plan to start teaching other youth on how to do the same thing because this can be a very good source of income if one commercializes it.

I know I can be a very pompous individual and graphic art just gives me a bigger portal to be that person.

I look forward to establishing a big resource website where people can be able to access my creativity visually and let it be written on their hearts writtenbymcpotar.

God knows what Mcpotar has been through to make it.

I know I can be a very pompous individual and graphic art just gives me a bigger portal to be that person.

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Graphics By Mcpotar
Facebook Notes

Demons Made Him Do It – Poem

This is one of my most celebrated Facebook notes even though criticized in many arenas as an evil masterpiece. I just needed to get my mind of love poetry when I was going through a break up so I decided to write dark pieces but ironically they did a lot of cleansing.

He tied her wrists with barb wire, she couldn’t escape,
She bled and cried after his brutal rape,
He had cameras on to put it on tape,
He made her watch it seven times as he fed on a cake,
Like a psychopathic clown, cream smeared his face,
Officer Trevor Davis was still on the case,
They knew she had gone missing for days,
From place to place ever seeking a trace,
Blood samples, finger prints and leads,
As the beast satisfied his evil needs,
Candles lit in the dark as he read his creeds,
Diabolic in his thoughts, he needed to be freed,
Her wrist bled more, her face turned pale,
Trevor Davis found a lead, wasn’t ready to fail,
The beast must’ve been blind, he must’ve read his creeds in braille,
For he didn’t see it coming, only good would prevail,
Trevor stepped into that shelter and rescued Katrina,
The Beast was her ex man, Jonah the swimmer.

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Graphics By Mcpotar
Facebook Notes

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Hope Floats (Written By Mcpotar)

It was 8am and Tongai was already at work, picking up trash around the City of Harare, alley after alley. He already felt tired but he knew he had to continue to get by. As they stopped by the hospital he rushed to pick up one of the bins, he saw something in the bin and paused.
His facial expression changed, he stood still with disappointment written in his face. There was a Khaki envelope with his handwriting on it at the top of that garbage. His application to the school of nursing had obviously been rejected.  The other men shouted,” Hey, we don’t have all day, let’s go!” He quickly got back to work hurt and pondering about life. He had hoped so much to become at least a male nurse and probably work his way up the medical field. 
He had been garbage collecting for two months just to get by in the city and be able to raise fees for applications. When evening came he sat on a stool in his room in Mbare and began to write a short note, which was to be delivered to be delivered to his rural home. He basically sent the message that since he got to the city he had not had any luck securing a job and he was  still raising money for his little brothers exam fee.
He unfolded some blankets from the corner of the room and spread them on the floor took a photograph of his mother and lay there and tears rolled out the corner of his eye. His mother had raised him single handedly, she never spoke much of his father and now she was gone leaving a void in the boys life. Tongai was 23 years old but he had gone through more strife than the average 28 year old because responsibilities in his life came at an earlier age than the average man. He worked for the city council during the week and sold rat poison during the weekend.
Many time s he had contemplated using the rat poison on himself but he was strong enough to ignore the thought. He kept his mothers picture everywhere he went and prayed to God for a change in his life.
The next day he went to the bus station and gave one of the drivers the envelope. The driver would deliver it to his family in his rural area.  Right then he was called for an interview by a printing company. They told him to go for the interview on the following Monday.
He was so happy, he prayed every day until that very day and when Monday arrived he was smartly dressed waiting to be called into the office. He got into0 the interview and as he got in he was introduced to a panel of three interviewers. A man who was in the panel stared at him for a while, as if he knew him. Tongai gave them his brief history when he was asked to and as he did this, the man requested that the interview be halted.
“Are you, the son of Stella Manyame?” he asked. Tongai nodded his head in approval but bamboozled by why he was being asked so. The man asked, “Are you sure?” Tongai nodded again.
“Yes, I am.”
“How is she? How is your mother doing?”
By this time the other panelists were angry for their time wasted but the man told them to bear with him.
“I think I have found my long lost son.”
Tongai took out a picture of his mother as tears rolled down his eyes, and Mr. Gwasira, the man in the panel moved close to Tongai and knelt before him in tears.
“Son, forgive me.” He said.

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Graphics By Mcpotar
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