i'm still in a super great place mentally but i'm beyond sick of shitty love poems for the moment. back to writing horrible, shots-fired raps that will never get popular. esskeetit.
writing a self-portait stylized as a caricature
deconstructing high-art with your own ignorant literature
each angel on angel dust, formed from dreams they crushed
i pray to the good lord that they'll be dead within the month
smoldering smokey like an industrial-era machine
from ashtray full of roaches and bags stained by amphetamines
uppers turnt to downers, this pattern's awful repetitive -
with white twist-top bottles and relaxing purple sedatives
oh dear god, what's addiction? what's abuse?
what is a lack of self-awarenessness, is this what you choose?
you've still yet to catch onto what the point of the joke's about -
laughing at your self-destructive ways and always shutting people out
best be careful pulling devils back through the needle tip
with veins of porcelain holding a syringe in a pistol grip
you may as well lean back and take it straight to your head
maybe cock the trigger back and take it aurally instead
waterboard yourself with the same shit used to baptize -
commodify your addiction, spread your zeal and fucking advertise
crush spirits more than drugs you synthesized
irrationality in high supply when scum don't die but multiplies
simply a fucking punter not understanding the mechanics,
of the modern dark horse race of heroin against xannax
follow the ill will of lil pump and takeshi69
and pick a few more lean rappers off of the assembly line
praise child rapists and idolize X (the woman beater)
integrate angst into every facet of your demeanor
like cloud rappers putting depression over beats to drop it
and trivializing mental health to a trendy fucking topic
a pissing contest of whose chemicals are most imbalanced
several slacktivist campaigns to further compound my malice
because since kendrick and earl did it, i guess therefore
it's now accepted rapping suicide outside of horrocore
with the grace of a ballerina with two broken ankles
dancing swan lake at gun-point through nooses and tangles
til their speech slightly stumbles and their steps begin to slur
scapegoated and shot dead just like the romanov's were
washed up like a hydrophilic release views
you're migos in a fair fight, motherfucker, you lose
like big sean passing predatory behaviour onto desiigner
i'd call it GOOD music but mumma didn't raise a fucking liar
you'll drop quicker than cambridge analytica's facebook shares
reach the heights of dee barnes just to "fall down the fucking stairs"
go and scribble down a verse in the shape of a malignant magazine
cock your pain and agony and squeeze to end this tragedy
to try to live a life maybe slightly less plagued
by thoughts of chemical spitfire and dull turncoat blades
and the images of martyrs sacrificing their swine
to the whetting steel against your broken, brittle spine