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My lips drip with metaphors everytime I spit a rhyme//
It's as complicated as makin 11 cents out of one dime//
My lyrics give you a "taste" in ya mouth, depending on the mood//
My handwriting changes cuz with new rhymes come new "food"//
My rhymes come in all shapes, sizes and forms, like 2-D//
The words are "dyslexic," but I make you crave them like you have a "tooth sweet"// (should be sweettooth, but the words are dyslexic)
The glasses I wear are crooked, my brain follwed their footsteps//
The words I write "float" across the pages of my booklet//
My lyrics "flow" so well, you'd think they are at sea "afloat"//
When I first started rappin, they drowned, but I saved them with a boat// (my good skill is the boat)
I choke on my rhymes whenever I spit them//
I throw wackness at them, but my aim is bad, cuz it never hit them//
My metaphoric style confuses geniuses, and even me//
I challenged myself to a battle rap, but lost deceivably//
Every word I ever spoke is visible through the air//
They flow past he eye can see, bit my telepathic knowledge is fair//
I connect to my lyrics on a level beyond spoken words//
My brain comprehends any emotion they, to me, have assured//
The pages of my notebook bend with every cringe of my lyrics//
I curve my hand when I write, so my ear touches the page, and I hear them//
When I write I'm trapped between the barrier of wack and ill//
I'm niether, cuz my mantality is "You're good if ya lyrics kill"//
I done "murdered" myself call me a "ghost"-writer//
Cuz in order to step to my level, you have to become a "close-biter"//
My blood cells are dyin', my rhymes "illness" have gotten in the air//
Cuz baby, my rhymes ARE the "Rockets Red Glare!"// (referring to National Anthem)
It's as complicated as makin 11 cents out of one dime//
My lyrics give you a "taste" in ya mouth, depending on the mood//
My handwriting changes cuz with new rhymes come new "food"//
My rhymes come in all shapes, sizes and forms, like 2-D//
The words are "dyslexic," but I make you crave them like you have a "tooth sweet"// (should be sweettooth, but the words are dyslexic)
The glasses I wear are crooked, my brain follwed their footsteps//
The words I write "float" across the pages of my booklet//
My lyrics "flow" so well, you'd think they are at sea "afloat"//
When I first started rappin, they drowned, but I saved them with a boat// (my good skill is the boat)
I choke on my rhymes whenever I spit them//
I throw wackness at them, but my aim is bad, cuz it never hit them//
My metaphoric style confuses geniuses, and even me//
I challenged myself to a battle rap, but lost deceivably//
Every word I ever spoke is visible through the air//
They flow past he eye can see, bit my telepathic knowledge is fair//
I connect to my lyrics on a level beyond spoken words//
My brain comprehends any emotion they, to me, have assured//
The pages of my notebook bend with every cringe of my lyrics//
I curve my hand when I write, so my ear touches the page, and I hear them//
When I write I'm trapped between the barrier of wack and ill//
I'm niether, cuz my mantality is "You're good if ya lyrics kill"//
I done "murdered" myself call me a "ghost"-writer//
Cuz in order to step to my level, you have to become a "close-biter"//
My blood cells are dyin', my rhymes "illness" have gotten in the air//
Cuz baby, my rhymes ARE the "Rockets Red Glare!"// (referring to National Anthem)
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