Suffering from internal conflict. My biggest foe’s my own conscience. Popping off inside my noggin is a war of thoughts, it’s chronic. Thoughts race at pace, I can’t stop it. I’ve got no clue what I want in life, got existential problems. Me feeling depressed is common. When these feelings get prominent, jotting is how I find solace. When I spit fire, my mood rockets but afterwards my mood drops quick. Quickly I feel the opposite. I’ll question whether I want this and then for a while I’ll not spit. This just compounds my despondence. What have I gotta accomplish? Am I just after the wrong thing? Even though my drive’s the strongest, road’s a roundabout. It’s toxic. If composing’s not the tonic, for the sake of god say what is! Wait, let’s maintain the god topic. Ain’t got one but I’ve got prophets of Satan constantly conjuring lies predicting my rhymes flopping to make my mind’s philosophic stance negative, I don’t profit. I blame myself for following the dishonest lies concocted. Their success in deceit’s constant. I’m a penny in their pockets. (Chorus) Angels and devils, they wage war. Angels help, they aid and support. Devils want me to stray off course. Picking a side shouldn’t take thought. Devils are deceptive, they cause me to doubt my decisions more. Less miserable when lyrical. My rhymes are the eye of the storm. Got problems under the bonnet. Trying to kill them with phonics. I’m shy, I write some top notch scripts but can’t spit in front of mosh pits. I sweat like I’m in the tropics, it’s like my skin pores are faucets. I then feel abdominal stings, which feel like I’ve had my crotch kicked. By now overwhelmed, head’s throbbing. My anxiety’s dominant. Eyes can’t make contact with sockets. Deer in headlights, frozen solid. So terrified, now my gob’s zipped while I try not to start sobbing. This makes me feel microscopic. Face is drenched from my tear droplets. Thinking that I don’t wanna live. I’m skinny, like I’ve stopped scoffing. I haven’t, my metabolic rate’s fast like when an ostrich sprints. Bulimic, that’s metaphoric. My bars aren’t spat, they’re vomited. Problems constitute a long list. Sorry, there’s not a synopsis. On paper, they would just not fit. Sharing digital documents, so not giving a sheet, got it? No cap, I wanna be honest. From now on, I’ll not bottle things. Born to be a barologist ‘cause bars are all I can swat with to stop me being demolished. (Chorus) Angels and devils, they wage war. Angels help, they aid and support. Devils want me to stray off course. Picking a side shouldn’t take thought. Devils are deceptive, they cause me to doubt my decisions more. Less miserable when lyrical. My rhymes are the eye of the storm. Honestly when at rock bottom, mind visualises and plots things like suicide, as an offering to kill demonic populace. I think of having a glock with one bullet, and then cocking it against the side of my cockpit. But when I have my AirPods in and I listen to rap gods spit, I realise that I must not quit. Rap feeds my inner optimist. It’s a method to conquer things. It is my way of responding to the obstacles life tosses at me. I still have not lost this battle. Been hit, but not finished.