Drake leaned back, his mind drifting. He thought about the days before the 50 billion streams and the private jets. He remembered the feeling of being a "Broke Boy" in a world of giants, back when he was sending verses to Puff Daddy only to have them scrapped, or when Soulja Boy was accusing him of stealing the very flow that made him a star. The Ghost of the Past
Suddenly, the SUV pulled up to a familiar, unassuming house in Forest Hill. It was the place where he grew up with his mother , dreaming of being something more than a teen actor. He stepped out, the cool night air hitting his face. Drake Broke Boy
"Imagine being that rich and still acting like you're from the mud," one of them laughed. Drake leaned back, his mind drifting
He climbed back into the car and grabbed the mic. He didn't want to rap about his watches or his mansions. He wanted to rap about the fear of losing it all—the feeling of being at the top but still having the soul of a kid who had to fight for his place in a room full of legends. "Turn it up," Aubrey said, his voice dropping an octave. The Ghost of the Past Suddenly, the SUV
A group of kids was gathered at a bus stop across the street, huddled over a phone. They weren't listening to his latest chart-topper. They were laughing at a viral video of someone mocking his "rich boy" problems.
The beat kicked in, and for the first time in years, he didn't sound like a superstar. He sounded like a man who knew exactly what it meant to have everything—and still feel like he had nothing at all.
"You sound too rich on this, Dra," his producer muttered, adjusted the levels. "The fans want that hunger. That 'before the Degrassi checks' energy."