a shady spiral part 1
choked a dream till it foamed at the seams of my headrest, [2] Then sewed it shut with the string from my therapist’s necklace. [3] I licked the mirror clean, saw guilt in the glass / [4] Spat a verse so raw, it made my shadow dash. [5] I fed my doubts a diet of blunts and Red Bull / [6] They sprouted wings, stole my pen, and scribbled dead rules. [7] The chalk outlines dance like ballerinas in basements / [8] While I argue with roaches about payment arrangements. [9] I breathe in static, then cough up confessions in Morse code / [10] God replies with a shrug and a bar I can’t decode. [11] I rent space in my head to imaginary tenants / [12] They blast Slim Shady demos while dodging my penance. [13] My notebooks caught fire, but the ashes spit poems / [14] That summoned my clones with bats and microphones. [15] I found peace, slit its wrists, just to see what it bleeds / [16] Then drew smiley faces on the blood in the weeds. [17] The devil called collect, I sent him a mixtape / [18] He said, “This sounds like Em before he fixed his mistakes.” [19] I ghostwrite for demons in three different states / [20] Then sue them for royalties in hell’s small claims. [21] I bench-press burdens while joking with fate / [22] And eat rappers’ last words like frosted cornflakes. [23] I painted a mural of God on a dartboard’s back / [24] Then threw bars till the frame collapsed from the impact. [25] I sharpened my tongue on the edge of regret / [26] Then whispered threats through vents in your headset. [27] I slept in a coffin just to hear my own snore / [28] Then dreamt of courtrooms where I beat metaphors. [29] Got expelled from heaven for rhyme scheme abuse / [30] Now I battle dead saints with a noose and a deuce. [31] I sipped holy water laced with rage and riffs / [32] Then baptized my mic with a crucifix twist. [33] My bars ain’t bars—they’re barbed wires in blizzards / [34] That wrap around weak verses and freeze the livers. [35] I’m a vending machine for pain and precision / [36] Push the wrong buttons and get slapped with division. [37] I freestyle with spirits who stutter in Latin / [38] Then rhyme “grudge” with “judge” inside padded mansions. [39] I play Monopoly with sins in disguise / [40] Traded Park Place for a blade and a lie. [41] I injected trauma into cassette tapes / [42] Now they hiss when you press play on heartbreak. [43] My therapist cried when I rapped through the session / [44] Said, “You’re cursed with art, but allergic to blessings.” [45] I floss with thoughts most minds can’t chew / [46] They’re stuck in the gaps where your morals grew. [47] I dig graves with bars, then sleep in the rhyme holes / [48] My bed’s made of metaphors stitched from blindfolds. [49] I murdered a beat, then confessed to the kick drum / [50] It tapped me twice—once for guilt, once for rhythm. [51] I levitate off wordplay, bent at the knees / [52] While critics try to box me with paper critiques. [53] I chewed on a punchline ‘til my teeth cracked joy / [54] Then spit it in a blender with my pride and toys. [55] I’m Slim in the attic with a Ouija board pad / [56] Summoning 8 Mile with a rhyme so bad… [57] It makes Stan sound stable, Kim sound chill / [58] And my conscience applaud when I aim to kill. [59] These bars ain’t lines, they’re nerves exposed / [60] Wrapped in a beat that forgot how to close.
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choked a dream till it foamed at the seams of my headrest, [2] Then sewed it shut with the string from my therapist’s necklace. [3] I licked the mirror clean, saw guilt in the glass / [4] Spat a verse so raw, it made my shadow dash. [5] I fed my doubts a diet of blunts and Red Bull / [6] They sprouted wings, stole my pen, and scribbled dead rules. [7] The chalk outlines dance like ballerinas in basements / [8] While I argue with roaches about payment arrangements. [9] I breathe in static, then cough up confessions in Morse code / [10] God replies with a shrug and a bar I can’t decode. [11] I rent space in my head to imaginary tenants / [12] They blast Slim Shady demos while dodging my penance. [13] My notebooks caught fire, but the ashes spit poems / [14] That summoned my clones with bats and microphones. [15] I found peace, slit its wrists, just to see what it bleeds / [16] Then drew smiley faces on the blood in the weeds. [17] The devil called collect, I sent him a mixtape / [18] He said, “This sounds like Em before he fixed his mistakes.” [19] I ghostwrite for demons in three different states / [20] Then sue them for royalties in hell’s small claims. [21] I bench-press burdens while joking with fate / [22] And eat rappers’ last words like frosted cornflakes. [23] I painted a mural of God on a dartboard’s back / [24] Then threw bars till the frame collapsed from the impact. [25] I sharpened my tongue on the edge of regret / [26] Then whispered threats through vents in your headset. [27] I slept in a coffin just to hear my own snore / [28] Then dreamt of courtrooms where I beat metaphors. [29] Got expelled from heaven for rhyme scheme abuse / [30] Now I battle dead saints with a noose and a deuce. [31] I sipped holy water laced with rage and riffs / [32] Then baptized my mic with a crucifix twist. [33] My bars ain’t bars—they’re barbed wires in blizzards / [34] That wrap around weak verses and freeze the livers. [35] I’m a vending machine for pain and precision / [36] Push the wrong buttons and get slapped with division. [37] I freestyle with spirits who stutter in Latin / [38] Then rhyme “grudge” with “judge” inside padded mansions. [39] I play Monopoly with sins in disguise / [40] Traded Park Place for a blade and a lie. [41] I injected trauma into cassette tapes / [42] Now they hiss when you press play on heartbreak. [43] My therapist cried when I rapped through the session / [44] Said, “You’re cursed with art, but allergic to blessings.” [45] I floss with thoughts most minds can’t chew / [46] They’re stuck in the gaps where your morals grew. [47] I dig graves with bars, then sleep in the rhyme holes / [48] My bed’s made of metaphors stitched from blindfolds. [49] I murdered a beat, then confessed to the kick drum / [50] It tapped me twice—once for guilt, once for rhythm. [51] I levitate off wordplay, bent at the knees / [52] While critics try to box me with paper critiques. [53] I chewed on a punchline ‘til my teeth cracked joy / [54] Then spit it in a blender with my pride and toys. [55] I’m Slim in the attic with a Ouija board pad / [56] Summoning 8 Mile with a rhyme so bad… [57] It makes Stan sound stable, Kim sound chill / [58] And my conscience applaud when I aim to kill. [59] These bars ain’t lines, they’re nerves exposed / [60] Wrapped in a beat that forgot how to close.
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