r/raplyrics

[Intro]

Devil ain't red where I'm from.
Clean cuffs. Good job. Dead eyes when the rent comes.

God ain't floating over rooftops either.

Sometimes God is the part of you
that can hold every piece
without letting one piece call itself you.

[Verse 1]

Seen demons draw pensions, saints duck warrants,
good dads move packages, bad men fund orphans.
Same palm feeds the neighbor, then folds round a throat,
so spare me the clean little categories people promote.

Everybody wants evil external and obvious,
horns on the forehead, some foreign-ass occupant.
But rage knows your government, envy knows where you sleep,
shame got a spare key cut from every secret you keep.

You call it, "I snapped."

Nah.

That tenant got established.
Every swallowed slight put fresh paint on the cabinets.
Every "I'm good" laid brick, every grudge paid utilities,
till pain had a room, then a wing, then authority.

Now it keeps hours.

Knows temperatures, triggers,
which old sentence turns grown men back into little kids quicker.
Knows whose tone hits thirteen before thought can react,
then borrows your mouth while you watch yourself answer them back.

That's possession.

No priest. No spinning bed.
One text turns breakfast to revenge before ten.
Knowing the next drink puts steel round both wrists,
still watching your own hand pour like it signed for the shift.

That's the terror.

A fragment gets fed till it thinks it's the bearer.
One wound gets a badge, one fear gets command,
five-year-old emergency governing a man.

[Hook]

God at the wheel.
Demon got keys.

Both sound like me
when pressure starts speaking.

Build or burn.
Rule or reveal.

What I bury gets leverage.

What I name loses steel.

No halo. No horns.
Just hands on the wheel.

Whole man drives.

Every piece gets heard.

Not every piece gets a deal.

[Verse 2]

Seen lonely men recruited by a logo and phrase,
whole spine manufactured in a couple of days.
Now doctrine does the talking, man barely attends,
facts get searched at the door if they threaten the ends.

That's a god too.

Just crookedly seated.

Put one value above all, watch the rest get deleted.
Nation over neighbor. Profit over breath.
Blood over truth. Revenge over sense.

Anything ultimate asks for an altar.

Modern suit. Same bargain. Sacrifice in the charter.
Boss cuts forty names for a quarterly target,
calls families "headcount," then drives home from the carnage.

Dealer steps on a bag, says the market demanded it.
Everybody finds doctrine once the damage gets handed in.

Religion with the choir removed.

Sacrifice stays.
Only the altar improved.

Demons got office clothes, diagnostic attire:
compulsion, complex, obsession, desire.
We renamed every hunger, congratulated science,
then marched to the same drums under updated compliance.

Man laughs at possession, checks his screen eighty times.
Says "nobody controls me" while an outrage owns his mind.
Says "I choose what I think," repeats somebody's feed.

Says "I know who I am."

Which "I" agreed?

[Hook]

God at the wheel.
Demon got keys.

Both sound like me
when pressure starts speaking.

Build or burn.
Rule or reveal.

What I bury gets leverage.

What I name loses steel.

No halo. No horns.
Just hands on the wheel.

Whole man drives.

Every piece gets heard.

Not every piece gets a deal.

[Verse 3]

I know mine.

One keeps evidence boxed from decades ago,
cross-examines new people for old people's blows.
One needs respect so badly fear passes for proof.
One learned being useful was safer than truth.

I don't give them horns.

Too convenient.

Make evil supernatural, then I don't gotta see it.
So I seat every bastard at the table by name:

What'd you guard?
What'd you fear?
Who taught you the game?

Most monsters started as guards.

Child gets hurt, bolts armor to the damage.
Armor saves him once, then protection turns habit.
Then habit turns law, law hardens to scar,
and the shield that saved the child starts cutting who they are.

One locked room buys the whole house quietly.

One coping mechanism starts writing policy.

Integration ain't loving every urge that appears.
Some need limits. Some need distance. Some need years.
Some need doors shut hard and consequences kept.

But bury a defendant, he'll hold court in your chest.

Catch envy editing facts before envy can use them.
Catch pride picking fights so the fear underneath looks ruthless.
Catch shame writing endings before anybody leaves.

Then find what can witness all three
without having to believe.

That center don't flatter.

Doesn't promise you're pure.

It says:

"Every piece belongs here.

Not every piece gets to rule."

[Bridge]

Maybe heaven is order
that can admit chaos exists.

Maybe hell is one wounded fragment
getting promoted to government.

Maybe the devil never needed your soul.

Just the steering wheel.

[Final Hook]

God at the wheel.
Demon got keys.

Both wear my voice
when pressure starts speaking.

Build or burn.
Rule or reveal.

What I bury gets leverage.

What I name loses steel.

No halo. No horns.
No myth to conceal.

Whole man drives.

Every piece gets heard.

Not every piece gets the wheel.

[Outro]

Old world called them spirits.

New world calls them symptoms.

Different dictionary.

Same ancient problem:

ignore what's moving inside you long enough,

and eventually

it stops asking permission

and introduces itself

as you.

Comprising of songs I wrote last year, emptying the first phase of the vault. Including my first freestyle, #1 freestyle.

I tried suicide 100 times like a 100tries I survived somehow I’m still alive I wanna hide get pill so I can die u do not hide so I cried start takin ur lives I ride by slide by my side
What they said I climbed
Flied I don’t why get of my head!!!
I’m losing mind just do it take my life
U wanna fight
Wanna fight
U wanna fight

getting obsessive while they try to write expressive I'm constructing hectic sentences with compressive syllables to get bitches out they dresses

they say an opinion claim it's constructive but when I address it they react like a chicken whos headless running in circles saying arts subjective

it's really pathetic how they style would get evaporated like tablets that's effervescent

hell's peasants getting mad when Shaitans present

showing the problems with they lessons

try to come correcting a verbal weapon who's representing

talking about experimenting but never questioned why rules was there thinking lazy rhymes is being progressive

swearing of the art form they being protective

but just like a broad with no pussy and is breast less

they just claiming labels that don't fit them like a gorilla Trying to put on that shoe of Cinderella's.

So tell them fellas I'd chop them to pieces like helicopter propellers

Was attached to the raps I've spat having them react like it's world war three hiding in bomb shelters

I just thrust pelvis at they mom's cause she loves raps Elvis.

To sur5 yourself.

Are you on about him or me?

Dual meanin tells.

Will you answer what he's askin?

2 dividin 12.

Know ignorin us won't make you happy.

Let omission's sadness commence,
While I descend n bypass your intents,
You view my whole life in fragments,
Just to take those pieces outta context,
Built a narrative of nonsense.

Wait so have you forgot all those regrets?
Or just that we were your defence,
For every act displayin arrogance?
If we're the problem then tell us,
Why you're livin a life of loneliness?

Cause I'm constantly in distress,
Simple tasks turn to fuckin arguments,
You're always thinkin you know best,
Makin your added value of 2 pence, Hyperinflated n worthless.

We didn't amass emotional debts,
That was all you livin reckless,
But go ahead n blame us...

Are you fuckin serious?

It's rude to interrupt...

Does it look like I give a fuck?
Only person I blame is myself,
Fully accountable for creatin my personal hell,
Psychological torture in one's self: you 5 n Cal,
Feelin a fraction of all this pain that I've felt,
Which doesn't mean you don't feel it aswell,
A fractured psyche holistically try'na help,
So explain to me why we just can't be rational?

Cause you always try to divide.

From this place I dwell.

Only a martyr in your mind.

Blamin no one else.

Still you're the one who remains blind.

To sur5 yourself.

This vanity of mine avoids the mirror,
Downplayin my self importance as a sinner,
Locked inside padded rooms wonderin if I'll ever,
Have the ability to be this abyssal saviour,
Or whether I'm drownin in it as an overachiever,
With some kinda righteous meta messiah,
Complex try'na make a difference to be better.

There you go again always writin "oh woe is me",
Your delusions of grandeur brought you here,
So now you'll listen to...

No, fuck you.

I'm done listenin, I'm done thinkin,
I'm done with everythin you're fuckin givin,
I'm not askin for sympathy in what I've written,
I'm analysin what kind of life I've been livin,
Alongside my self destructive intuition,
While runnin it through lyrical cynicism,
To hopefully understand n make a decision,
Whether or not I can be forgiven,
By myself n anyone who gives me permission,
Includin the 5 identities I've been dismissin.

You talk trenches like you toured 'em, wore the mud for the reel,
twenty minutes in the dirt, then scrubbed the blood from the heel.
Whole war in the caption / packed arsenal in the grammar,
but the hand behind the image never learned to handle hammers.

Strap leased / plug managed / whole camp manufactures,
ghost hands draft threats, then your mouth performs the chapter.
You're not danger.

You're packaging.

Black print / bright branding,
borrowed blood passed down
with the fingerprints sanded.

Checklist at a gunfight?

Check this:

name / image / chain / cadence / staged scars in the edit,
serials shaved smooth, every borrowed piece presented
as authentic / automatic / documented / embedded,
till I follow who gets paid
and watch your menace change possession.

I don't wave blades.

I trace blades.

Forge marks.

Source names.

Who sharpened it?
Who sold it?
Who profits when you showcase?

You swear the block pressed your name into concrete.

Concrete forgot you.

Your publicist knows which corner makes the photograph look street.

You "run streets"?

You orbit 'em.

Crop exits for the content,
turn survival into styling, sell the danger with the garment.

Paid protection / staged aggression / borrowed reputation,
tourist talking occupation
like proximity was participation.

One date.

One name.

One witness.

Watch the myth hemorrhage.

One fact cracks the façade,
then the rest starts turning evidence.

Whole gangster disappears
when the paperwork gets legible.

Bloodline?

Dry ink.

War stories?

Press copy.

Scars framed chest-high,
sponsor cropped outside the body.

Every siren in your verse
is borrowed urgency on cue.

You rap like death knows your address.

Death couldn't pick you from your crew.

Don't blink.

Don't pivot.

Don't look back for applause.

That silence isn't terror.

It's the room identifying fraud.

You thought volume made you lethal,
thought aggression made you real.

But steel don't write a history
just because you flash the grip.

Gun don't make the hand.

Threat don't make the man.

Blood don't make a witness
just because it stains the stand.

Corpse inside a metaphor
can't testify you lived the scene.

Death inside a sentence
doesn't certify what you have seen.

That's why every violent image
you manufacture starts defecting:

bullet has an owner.

Prints don't match the legend.

Same blood / wrong body.
Same smoke / wrong lungs.
Same scar / wrong story.
Same threat / hired tongue.

Same pose / same prose / same borrowed intimidation,
same violence recycled
through another imitation.

You're the stain on somebody else's page
calling yourself scripture,
a muzzle flash reflected
then enlarged into a picture.

Secondhand danger / hand-me-down anger / staged desperation,
you inherited the imagery
then marketed the imitation.

Keep the strap.

Keep the smoke.

Keep the body-count recital.

Keep repeating borrowed danger
till the copy sounds original.

But copies leave artifacts.

Pressure leaves impressions.

Every myth you manufacture
leaves another man's reflection.

I followed where it bled.

Red mark.

Red thread.

Every trail ran backward
to another hand instead.

[Beat nearly empties.]

Check the clock.

Don't touch it.

Time already made the cut.

You built a legend out of echoes
then confused the echo for the source.

You weren't killed.

You weren't robbed.

Nobody came for your position.

I just checked the chain of custody
on your self-description.

Now the chain looks rented.

Now the scars look staged.

Now the blood reads like red ink
somebody else put on the page.

Now the threat sounds secondhand.

Now the voice sounds overdubbed.

Now the legend looks like evidence
with somebody else's blood.

And when the costume finally drops,
there's no king beneath the gore.

Just a gutted-out persona
with no owner anymore.

[Beat cuts.]

Prints don't match the legend.

That's all I came here for.

Okay
Here it Gose
This clown is going down
Once he hears this
His yellow pants will turn brown
Cuz I am gonna get crown
Call me a Burger King
As deatory this useless and worthless thing
Tonight they will call rondald Donald
Cuz there’s no MC in you
This hellspawn will be on my menu
Calm your purple friend to save you its too late
I will beat your ass so hard
The clown will be grimace shake
Wanna why America is overweight
It’s cuz you sell them diabetes on a plate
Yeah Theres no escaping your fate
Try to get heaven
I will lock The gate

Part 2
Here it Gose
Listen up Ronald today
I will be your Teacher
He tires to like a preacher
But hes more like a screecher
Shouting out nonsense that
Makes wanna call him a disfeature
Hell or high water
I will rip
Apart this night creature
As his war
Crimes span the plant in this double feature
McDonald’s is stupid
I am not
Ronald cant even come up with a thought
His brugers taste like snot
After this in mind
He will be a blank spot
Becuse he can cannot dream to
Compete with my big shots
But fear not
I will make sure all his friends get caught
For thier crimes and shorten all thier life times
Ronald will not Surive my rymes
For all your fame
You have run out of times

Wishing I was living rich and dandy

Instead being high Tryna raid the kitchen pantry

Would be nice having a better bong that's all fancy

But in life I take what god hands me

With no plan b so I guess I fucked

For busting a nut in the imaginary nany

it's not my fault she seduced me with some brandy

plus her name's franny and she was posing with her titties exposing wearing nothing but pantys thought she was hot till I sobered up and realised it was a tranny who looked like him Carrey

enough of that now I'm coming back with raps with a switch blade attached

at both ends my rhymes is golden leaving foes with broken noses and jaws all swollen

plus a ruptured Collen from my lines forcefully bending over grown men leaving speakers broken

had to pull a rug up from under you bratts release the math

destroying whole habitats by choking mic with words I've spoken

now shh the teachers freaking with some shit you could be quoting.

more dope than that herb U was smoking

Slay U to boom bap trap or violin when I'm whiling throwing vile bile till I'm blacking out like I was sipping jack or jin

Wake up with fake tats body a track on accident.

Ask a friend for a pen chew the end then hand back to him

Laugh and grin

Then spit a line that gets admired by fellow rap gremlin

Lol idk is this outta pocket

I heard someone say once a hole is dug
the rule is to replenish the loam
but if the hole comes from deep within
a filthy squatter can call it home

His golden grin masks his rancid breath
He’s hidden in plain sight
He makes his bed and sings his hymn
a lullaby to sleep through the night

The fear at first is now a fleeting thought
“what was I so afraid of?”
He asked me one evening to sing a duet
He told me I sound of a mourning dove

after many songs sung, the gold started to tarnish
and copper canines were left in their place
a gilded smile quickly turned to a deadly thing
a karmic intervention or open-shut case

We gave up on lullabies and only sing after noon
Sometimes even two maybe three
My voice is tired and my throat is raw
But he still wont sing without me

Madness comes in all sizes and shapes
an infectious beat could strike the match
if there is only one lesson that can be learned in life
it should be ‘empty holes look better with a latch’

Wrote this tn…never posted on here but im curious what unbiased folks think

Eminem was demented on this shit lol also sorry last one I'll go back to rapping or something

[Intro]

Thirty-eight.

The report said Asperger's.

Useful name for a pattern older than the paper.

Still no instruction for catching a feeling before it reaches my mouth.

[Verse 1]

Intake date, black ink, three neat little choices.

"Often, sometimes, never" for a whole life between boxes.

Key teeth in the deadbolt, cupboard click, plate shift.

Learned danger by acoustics, before I had a name for it.

Face changed, phrase stayed, same words, strange weight.

Took speech at face value, questions got translated as bad faith.

Ask what they meant, now I'm making it difficult.

Don't ask, distant, literal, invisible.

Pre-edited sentences, bent timing, tone, emphasis.

Body filed amendments, I was late to what they meant in it.

Three hours after conflict, toothbrush, bathroom glass.

One word finally surfaced: humiliated.

Not "mad."

That's the delay: body files first.

Language comes last.

One minute on my tongue can live ten years

in somebody else's past.

[Hook]

Don't let one minute write ten years.

Don't let one sentence become the sentence.

If I can't name it, I don't name you.

Can't revise what raised me, can revise what leaves my mouth.

One minute. Ten years.

[Verse 2]

Delayed recognition, replay became religion.

Retreat, return, re-listen, re-cut the split decision.

Reconstruct the breathing, hand position, what I'd witnessed.

What she said, what I heard, where the meaning went missing.

Room turns familiar, chair angle painfully particular.

Every syllable catalogued, low-signal, almost subliminal.

Feeling shows up last, after every revision.

By the time I call it hurt, they've already lived my first version.

Friends heard distance in silence I called protection.

Partners heard contempt where I thought I bought reflection.

Alone got efficient: one cup, one chair, one key.

No hidden meaning in a room that only answers to me.

But empty rooms don't teach disagreement, they prevent it.

Avoidance wears achievement's clothes, till somebody tests it.

Then one phrase touches the rule the old house hid.

Thirty-eight meets twelve.

Before either one knows it did.

Diagnosis enters the record, cause belongs in evidence.

Pain can explain the case, it never gets jurisdiction.

[Bridge]

An apology can be accurate, and still arrive after the cost.

Intent can be clean, somebody can still carry what it caused.

Both facts stay. I don't need a winner.

I need enough time, not to invent one.

[Verse 3]

Two-thirteen, screen lit.

Three drafts, absolutes.

First draft: "you always." Second draft: "you never."

Every "always" builds a case, every "never" writes one moment as forever.

Thumb over Send, jaw set, old court back in session.

Delete "you are," keep "when you did."

Keep the action, lose the verdict.

"You didn't call" is record.

"You don't care" is narrator.

One names what happened, one manufactures character.

Pain crops the camera, swears the frame is accurate.

Hurt supplies adjectives, certainty starts backing it.

Read till what happened separates from what I added.

Precision isn't precise if punishment is packed in it.

Draft stays in Notes. No send.

Screen dims. Room again.

Twenty minutes later, the sentence gets smaller.

"When you didn't call,

I felt like I didn't matter."

No charge, no character, no verdict after.

One thing happened outside, one happened inside,

one "you are" became "this hurt."

[Interlude]

Success is what didn't happen: no send, no slammed conclusion.

No morning spent repairing one minute of interpretation.

I spent half my life asking:

"Why can't anybody understand me?"

Harder question.

Can I understand myself early enough

that somebody else doesn't remember me at my least accurate?

The child wanted pain translated,

the man got a different assignment.

Feel it late, if that's how it comes.

Just don't make another person serve the sentence.

[Hook]

Don't let one minute write ten years.

Don't let one sentence become the sentence.

If I can't name it, I don't name you.

One minute. Ten years.

[Outro]

Thirty-eight. Still late sometimes.

The feeling can arrive late.

The consequence doesn't have to.

If I can't name it, I don't name you.

I leave the sentence open.

No period. No verdict. Enough room for the next word.

Not to cost ten years.