If I'm not divinely sent then I outta explode
Still hopin I'll be rhymin just to balance the odd
I'm like an emcee without motives, spittin bonkers
Best offensive composition, kickin someone's punk ass
Through my youth I grew up listenin to ICP
Outkast and Eminem, dreamin bout a CD
In my picture that's fizzlin, so much fighting
Cybercrime on the trail of the ones that keep biting
Got rid of forty enemies and there's more to die
Just awaitin the momentum to blossom and rhyme
Hit you in the gut and stomach, inflictin bodily parts
Dismembering the rhythm, cooking the scene, brains and hearts
I gotta be the illest to say some shit like this
Thirty five years old still battlin sufferance
Readily steady forming metaphors in translations
Seekin pure meaning beyond alien imaginations
Even without euphoria I'm designin litretures
Rhymin capabilities sent through tactile messages
Still alive spittin prophecies in mystic envisions
Since the start spillin truth beyond limits and visions
If the fire ain't divine then my psyche might explode
But the rhythm keep pullin me back straight to the road
No motive in the motion, the flow still bonkers
Step in the ring and I'm swingin on punk asses
From tapes of ICP to wisdom from Em
Dreams of pressin vinyls, droppin tracks on a CD
Every picture in my mind full of trials and fighting
While the culture keep watchin the imitators biting
Enemies fall when the moment align and rhyme
Every syllable sharpened with rhythm and time
Pull apart beats like organs and parts
Then rebuild the track with new hearts