Whatever the Rock was cooking has been smelt. This is the war within myself for the championship belt. Blows have been dealt and brutally felt to where borh personalities of mine are crying out for help. Never sell us cheap. We both smell who's weak like smelly feet. Sector5one, tell these freaks, else, they'll be geeked from whatever they're smoking, I'm not joking, what I've spoken spells relief. Most Rappers are like thieves. They take from the audience applauding them like money grows on trees. Me? Please! I'm different cause I feel it isn't sufficient for anyone to listen to what isn't food. That is inefficient - it's rude. It would behoove you slide to this private groove while both of my personalities are in excited moods. Should we confide in dudes how things work; how all the money, fame and the bling hurts? It seems dirt is the only thing that brings worth because what's planted in it comes forth out of the King's earth as YAH intended in splendor - it's splendid. Tremendous legal tinder in the eyes of the vendor and his kindred. Back to my personalities in endless warfare. Well, actually there's way more than two of us and we're all scared and all share a love for the Lord of Lords, but if one of us strikes a chord, then it's back to the drawing board or drawing swords. Bedlam goes on daily in one vessel. Enemies wrestle until only one personality can step over the threshold. The best mode is to press no buttons. No thoughts or movements all of a sudden, so that what could have been wasn't. There's always feet shuffling and scuffling up my mind. Those same feet have snuck up from behind like I'm blind. I feel unfit when I come to grips of who we are, especially when I unzip myself to reveal the scars of yet another persona that has escaped the jar totalling 7 different people so far. Whoever chooses to manifest is best guess, I just pray that he's blessed to pass the test for eternal rest.