23 lines

If you see me / pressin' the pedal, / I’m testin' the metal / on different levels,

Well essentially, / several rebels / are destined to settle / with heavy devils.

I don't need skill / to bleed 'em or kill 'em, / I distill the venom / and drill 'em,

Until the mental / is dented within 'em / and nothing is left / but the rhythm.

Nothing special / you’ve ever written, / so whenever / you’re flowin' over instrumentals,

You ain't adjacent / to greatness, / you’re vacant / and basic / with stagnant fundamentals.

It’s unintentional, / my dimension / is unconventional, / and the tension / is apprehension,

Did I mention / your invention / lacks extension / and retention / of potential?

You say it's your invention? But where’s the retention you’re in a lower level dimension of self-prevention /

I don't try to flow, I allow the light to grow you’re dancin' with the Devil, but I’m the one who owns the show

A molecular Stamp encoded in the strands of the beast,

An industrial press where the pressure is never released

I authenticate the void through a quantum alignment of force,

You basically vanished once the stamp has altered the course

I’m about to rain with heat the atmosphere is bleeding for peace,

Like wires breached the fire speaks 'til the frequency cease

I design defeat it’s a sign of the bravery facing the light

that spark I’m the current that’s erasing the night

say I’m obsessed nah, I’m certain and blessed with a purpose,

Permanent pressure I’m searching the surface for verses

You test if you want the effort’ll melt when I drop the map,

Groundbreaking the floor collapses toxic wrath in the trap

I’m bendin’ dimensions with sentence extensions that stretch through the skeleton, Venomous rhetoric etched in the resin of dead presidents. Every breath’s an epileptic electric discharge through the metronome, Heads explode from the pressure whenever the letters roll. I step with aggression compressed in a mesh of corrupted codes, Flesh getting shredded like delicate thread through a weapon’s comb. I don’t rap — I dissect rhythms and inject sickness in left ventricles, While weak rappers beg relevance from comment sections and decimals. My mental’s a furnace of murderous sermons and cursed theology, Burnin’ through verses with words that convert into third-degree lobotomies. You heard of me? Certainly — vertically merging with mercury currents, Perfectly urgent, I’m servin’ these nervous suburban nerds a disturbance.