Untitled Song

You spit a novel of carnage—cool.

But I carve god-body stanzas that slam your saga into a carbon fog of damaged atoms,

my bars expand in fractal patterns, blacken planets, snap commandments

and leave your mansion of random tantrums cracked like lantern glass on granite.

 

You ranted madness—

I answer back with pathways hacked from phantom classes,

chanting Sanskrit tantrics that collapse your tactics

like anti‑gravity avalanches dancing past your frantic chances.

 

I stand where angels panic—

crafting manuscripts so savage that Satan hands me axes asking

“can you manage slashing planets while they’re orbiting?”

Of course I can—

I torque ’em in

a vortex grim,

and force their cores to scorch your skin

so deep the scar tissue forms origin stories for orphans in war again.

 

You tore a limb?

I morph your kin into tortured wind

that storms within your mortal grin

until your jawbone shatters like porcelain on a sawblade’s spin.

 

You said you swing blades in your sleep—

I swing ghost-forged guillotines dripping encoded omens,

so potent your spleen bleeds meaning, unfolding secret folders

that rewrite your life as a note from Moloch

about how hopeless your focus is.

You hoped for this?

I throw opponents into broken oceans where the stones of omens live

and leave ’em floating like tattered posters of old soldiers with no motives left.

 

Your demons feast on secrets—cool.

Mine preheat ether,

breathe through speakers,

sleep in regions between quantum bleeds and fevered creatures

where even reapers deepen seizures when they read my meter’s features.

 

You brought “rap devil” lines like that’s pressure?

I’m the threshold of death’s ledger—

my pen measures hex vectors that bend texture

and send spectres into the vents of your head center

’til stress renders your chest tender like wet leather.

 

You spit schemes so clean they seem repeated.

Cute.

I spit schemes so deep they bleed through dreams of priests

and leave elite emcees deleting all their old releases

after hearing me breathe one bar that freezes steam and heats marine life

beneath extreme tides.

 

Your cadence bends pagan winds—

mine changes spins of ancient rings,

tames the kings,

breaks the wings

of angel things,

then aims the strings of fate to cling

around your brainstem like entangled rings of razor‑wires placing hymns

within your veins in binary notation scripts.

 

You molded distance?

I fold existence

’til solar systems shift positions

and split dimensions

so intensely physicists

dismiss religion

’cause my written visions

rip through prisms

with precision-driven

infinite schisms

that clip your rhythm

like twisted scissors.

 

Your “logic stopped, noggin split?”

I drop tectonics, rot your optics, pop your conscience

into pockets of frosted continents

and haunt your posture with operas chronic as prophets vomiting cosmic sonnets.

 

You use bayonets?

I write with quasar jets,

laser nets,

and crater sets that break your chest

and scrape the rest of your data vest

into vapor mess.

 

You “opened rifts through soldiers’ wrists”?

I cloned the glyphs of solar myths

that choke and lift your soul adrift

and coat it thick in molten scripts

so cold they hiss when Odin shifts.

 

Your tactics drawn?

I’m cataclysm wrapped in psalms,

collapse your squad,

smash your god,

drag your mom

past Babylon

and have her watch

your atoms drop

like shattered clocks in acid fog.

 

You “twist limbs like damaged yarn”?

I twist galaxies—

snapping faculties, fracturing strategies,

shattering cavities so gradually

your anatomy becomes a tapestry

of agony scribbled graphically

across dark matter tapestry.

 

My wrath alarms gods?

Mine charms gods, disarms gods,

then arms gods with bombs carved in dawn’s fog

and launches them all at your squad’s block.

 

Your “cheap carpets wig parted” bar?

Cute.

I shear your spirit’s mirror’s image,

cleave your lyrics into splinters,

freeze your innards,

leave you trembling in a bleak dimension

between Eden’s exit and Venus’ engines.

 

You “freeze and fry lines”?

I seize the timelines,

re-weave the guidelines,

define the divine spine

that drives design signs into skyline pipelines

and makes even sky-high mindscapes

cry when my rhymes vibrate sideways.

 

You brag about catching bodies?

I catch comets,

launch sonnets

that bomb prophets into raw fragments—

your squad’s talking nonsense

with comments lodged in marsh pockets.

 

You wrote of Odin, Caesar, scythes—

I write the rites that wipe the skies,

strike with spiked mind‑knives

that slice divine lines

and splice nine lives

into twice‑dyed cries

from Christ-like shrines.

 

You said you’ll rupture guts?

Cool.

I rupture suns,

crush the drums,

pluck the lungs

from under monks

and summon floods

that run through slums

with thunder tongues.

 

Your style basic?

Mine breaks matrix grids,

shapes hatred’s scripts,

and raises crypts

where angels sit

to take the hits

your cadence missed

while I lay waste to it.

 

You stretch endings beyond the edge?

I stretch time’s tendons and

press legends

into death’s presence

with hexed sentence

sets etched in

dense engines

meant to end planets.

 

You march with wrath?

I march with math that carves the path

of stars in half,

spark the dark with arcs so vast

even god's guards collapse.

 

You "spoke in riffs"?

I wrote the glyphs that composed those riffs,

then broke the scripts

and sold the myths

to ghosts equipped

with throats of pitch

that roam the crypt

to quote my hits.

 

You “erase sleep?”

I erase weeks,

reshape streets,

and make beats

that quake deep

enough to break reefs.

 

You “think black friends let you say N‑word?”

I bend worlds,

end pearls,

send swirls of red curls

through head girth

til ten earths

converge and render your nerves

a dead blur.

 

You talk MAC‑10s?

I drop black suns

on cracked slums,

hack lungs,

and track runs

of past ones

who act dumb

and have them

collapse numb.

 

You said “this is where the track ends”?

Nah.

 

THIS is where the world ends —

and I’m the one who snapped its stem.