• View Comments
• Share with Shortlink:

Whutupdoe…I’m back on some Lazarus s**t. Straight up. U n****s miss me? With every bullet so far, huh?

Yeah whuteva.

F**k you,too.

For those of you who give a flying f**k, I have returned, at least until Raze or Jigsaw tell me to roll the f**k out.

I’ve had a change of heart like Chuck Taylor. For this drop I’m gonna leave all of the dissing of these clowns without make-up that we call rappers to my compatriots.

This s**t is serious.

As cancer.

Or high blood pressure.

Or stroke.

Pontine stroke to be exact. The stroke of all strokes. At 36. Yup. I stroked the f**k out. Almost got my die on.

I aint gonna get into how I survived, but I survived. I walk with the G-O-D, n***as. Yeah I couldn’t walk,talk, eat, or breakdance. F**k it, s**t happens. I wasn’t gonna finish this piece – too personal, too painful.

But s**t kept happening that urged me on.

A suprise tweet from one of my nurses, well-wishes from everyone from Everlast to BMF affiliates. Motherf**king benefit concert was one jam with niggas from New York, Philly, and California.

Cats were showing love, and I wasn’t even dead (anymore) n***as were making huge secret contributions that will stay secret.

Hey, I was in one of the best hospitals in the United States, that s**t COSTS money. Man, a lot of n***as revealed their true selves to me during this ordeal and some showed me the true meaning of the word “FRIEND,” word to Whodini.

I learned a lot my damn self. Shout out to all the writers who damn near eulogized me and shout out to all the readers who kept me in their prayers. Thank you, that s**t worked.

For my part, I’ll say this; I’m deading all previous beefs, unless a nigga wants to keep it going. I’m definitely into that too. And for the reason I wrote this depressing little ditty – dont be a dumb-ass like me.

If your doctor gives you some little red hypertension pills that give you headaches, take that s**t. Or you can take the 17 pills I take, and hope you wake up in the morning.

Take care of yourself, because I don’t want you to end up in a wheelchair with an eye patch like me. Trust me, it’s not as cool as it sounds.

Yo,I envy you.

I envy all you good walkin’, good seein’, good talkin’ muthaf**kers.

Hypertension. The silent killer.

Yo, talkin’ s**t about the f**king Grammys can wait a minute, but your health can’t. If I can convince just one of you obnoxious f**ks to get checked out, I’ll feel that all of this f**king pain is worth it. Don’t have me endure it in vain.

Twit @ me, @hexmurda – unfiltered.

Editor’s note: hexmurda hates us, but we love him. Glad to have you back, hex!

Click here for more on hexmurda and what he means to Detroit and Hip-Hop.