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.