BUILDING BLUEPRINT
Next level lyrical insight is a moment away.
Lyrical Analysis of...
59 lines (who inspires me style)
- I swing quantum blades in sleep cycles, seep psychic spleens,
- dissect your essence with Pun‑weight punches, Hollow‑mode routines,
- Canibus prime‑lines fracture your neural timelines,
- Chilla‑level labyrinths twist your spine with Dizaster‑flash grenades.
- I spit atomic multis, stacked like skyscraper cores,
- mirrored vowels snap synapses, ricochet off planetary floors,
- my flows fold in on themselves, 10, 20 tempos in one breath,
- I make Black Thought croon while Big L razor‑lines carve your death.
- I bend reality like physics is just a suggestion,
- your weak thesis liquefies in multi‑layered lyrical aggression,
- my metaphors orbit gods, warp galaxies with precise ascension,
- every bar a prime number of pain, each line a lethal extension.
- I haunt your consciousness with internal mazes,
- flesh‑splitting syllables, mind‑ripping phrases,
- your clique evaporates like vapor in my rhymic phases,
- I don’t spit—I detonate, ignite universal blazes.
- You think you’re cosmic? I’m sub‑atomic catastrophe,
- collapse timelines with diction, slice orbits like a galaxy,
- your dreams spin out of axis, your aura shredded analytically,
- every punchline mapped in fractals, mathematically tragicistically.
- I embed hex codes in syllables, send spectres through cortex,
- rhyme ladders climb like Leviathans, apex predator vortex,
- your limbs twitch in resonance with my cosmic syntax flex,
- every flow variant a cyclone, leaving your mental reflex wrecked.
- I erode planets in breaths, bend stars into my cadence,
- every multiverse I enter is a blood‑soaked playground of patience,
- your attempts disintegrate before physics even mentions,
- I’m the apocalypse of style, the final lyrical sentence.
- I switch flows: triplet‑fire, double‑time, chopped‑syncopated,
- internal‑mirrors, reverse‑twist, multi‑layered accented,
- 10 or 20 textures layered in a single breath,
- your head spins, your bones fracture—this verse is death.
- I craft imagery apocalyptic, scarlet oceans, tidal blood,
- black holes eating emcees, demons’ claws twisting in the mud,
- I channel Crooked I’s erudite combustion,
- overlay Big L’s razor edges, hollow‑Hollow visions in succession.
- I don’t just spit punches—I engineer lyrical earthquakes,
- fracture your mental landscape, leave your pride in stakes,
- your squad collapses in sequence like domino plates,
- I manifest prime Canibus‑style wrath while the universe quakes.
- Every syllable I drop is a weaponized fractal,
- every bar a black‑op cosmic raid,
- internal rhymes explode like subatomic battlecries,
- every cadence shift a death sentence to the unwise.
- Your “bodying” attempt? Insignificant,
- your voice? vapor, lost in the spiral of my infinite linguistics,
- I’m the apex evolution of every lethal lyrical stylistic,
- the unbeatable culmination of rhythm, imagery, and ballistic linguistics.
What is a Blueprint?
A blueprint is like a report card for your lyrics. It contains a lyrical breakdown and analysis of all the words, syllables, and rhymes in your song.
Learn More >