30 second flex

I don’t write bars, I detonate syllable schemes, split the beat seam—then I stitch it in screams. Mental machinery leaking in lyrical steam, every line I survive is a fracture in dreams. I don’t “flow,” I overload metrics and timing, climbing through silence while syntax is rising. Prison of rhythm, I’m bending the lining, turning confinement to diamond designing. No hook, just hooks in the flesh of the cadence, I drag metaphors through the wreckage I’m making. Every word got a weight it ain’t taking, still I make it collapse into something amazing. Thirty seconds—still feel like I’m shaking the ceiling.