vitrified

0:00

The Forceful Correction I hear your lips running my way, But your feet run the other direction. It’s time for a forceful correction of your complexion. I’m out there stunning with my cunning personality and my crushing brutality. Your own internal pride is subject to your own mortality, And self-allotted labels are subject to decay, void of vitality. You say it’s impossible; I say improbable. Now let’s see what’s possibly probable. Your shit’s not audible, so defeat is probably impossible to circumvent. You can try, but your rules don’t fly in my gravity. Don’t make me add a verbal clip of endless capacity and capabilities. I’ll spray your way and slay the day away, obliterating the fabric of time. The day turns to night, night back to day. The world is grey; the plight decays our ways. It’s a prism of a prison that follows a fine line. Your lack of morality within an immortal state of disgrace shows you lack a spine. You’re questioning mine? Has me in your face again, this time with landmines layered between my lips. I empty them like clips. Displacement. I’m a foe, not a friend. Predator meets prey; soon you’ll bend and end. Displays of disambiguation—a societal, disposable irritation. Vitrified pride, stagnant isolation. A realization of ludicrous choices and voices, Interwoven and relying on delayed relays and power-play displays, Out of shit bars, lines, and rhymes. You slander and pander while building your identification for a nation on a notion, But the potion neutralized, because I ain't blind to your kind and your tactics. I’m about to scatter your bones like desert-varnished glacial erratics.

4 Comments