=´¨´=éThree 16‑bar verses (clean...

Three 16‑bar verses (clean of drug-making instructions, explicit language minimal)

 

Verse 1

 

I keep the record spinning in my head like midnight vinyl, city lights flicker while the thoughts go tidalPaper maps of past mistakes, I scribble blueprints in the margins, every line a spiral, every line recitalStreet-schooled prophet, mouthpiece for the nights I hid my heartbeat under hoodies and denialBought time with broken promises, used the rhythm as my compass, found direction in the trialOld ghosts on the stoop whisper numbers that I’ve learned to count in syllables and cyclesI move like someone with a ledger of regrets but I flip the pages — lessons turn to riflesNot to harm but to defend my center, serrated metaphors to cut the clutter of the idleI wear my scars like custom armor, silver seams, each seam a story, each story vitalThey asked if I was gone — I answered with a chorus that refused to be extinguishedI walked the edge and taped my shadow to the pavement, kept the pulse undiminishedBack days in the rearview, brothers prayed I’d make it, I laughed and said, how dead can dying get?I’m breathing loud, a living paradox, headline in my chest they can’t forgetThese bars stitch up the wounds with verbs and cadence, healing in the cadence I transmitI spit the map of my survival in a language that the night and neon both admitSo press play on what I felt and built, let the city learn my name in brackets and in gritI do the work—no shortcuts, just verse, and every verse another brick I fit

 

Verse 2 (different flow, sharper cadence)

 

Cold dawn, concrete sermons, heartbeat synced to subway brakes and siren pitchesI lace my lines with kinetic verbs, run laps around the thought that tries to stitch usThis is not a plea; it’s a manifesto scrawled in tongues that hustle, hope and hingesMicrophone a scalpel, cut the noise, reveal the bone where truth still inchingI learned to bargain with my doubts, trade one night of panic for a morning’s rhythmCounted breaths like currency until the ledger cleared and I could speak with wisdomThey called it madness — I called it practice, each misstep an audition for my patienceI turned scarcity into syntax, poverty into patterns, pain into performance stationsEminence in the margins, hungry sonic architect, I draft the skyline out of phrasesEvery line a scaffold, every rhyme a rung up from those darker phasesI’m not preaching violence, I’m cataloguing survival — how we hustle through the staticFrom alley prayer to studio glare, my soundtrack’s cinematic and unapologeticSo keep the beat heavy, make the chorus lift like iron lungs exhaling steelWe write the future with our accents, with the knocks on doors that taught us zealNo chemical directions here, only chemical metaphors to paint the feelI move like evolution in a hoodie, steady, rigorous — the wound will heal

 

Verse 3 (triplicate vibe requested — same starter line as user asked; I echo an opening motif, then diverge)

 

I’ve had a song stored in the depths, unfinished, kept it warm like coals in denim pocketsI’ve had a song stored in the depths, unfinished, let it burn slow, now watch me rocketI’ve had a song stored in the depths, unfinished, three echoes of the same confessionNow watch the chorus fold the night into a helmet, strap it down, make a professionFrom Kvítkovice to the mainframe, I pin my flag where static turns to signalI write the code of what I feel in staccato pulses, every bar a living symbolI talk to heroes through the speakers, celebrity names like talismans and tincturesBut real respect comes from the craft, from writing through the tremors and the fixturesNo shortcuts to creative kingdoms, only late nights, raw drafts and revisionsI lace my nouns with grit and verbs with motion, build the bridge from scars to visionsIf they want the drama, I’ll provide the arc — rise, fracture, then restoreIf they want the chaos, I’ll illustrate the math: pain plus time equals moreSo play these bars in loop until the wound becomes an anthem you can humI’m done with begging fate to notice — I’ll make my legacy with what I’ve becomeKeep your idols on the mantle; give me the mic and I’ll rearrange the sunThree starts the same, three finishes different — that’s how revolutions run