When I throw rhymes, I never miss

Cuz I spit lines that have to hit

Like collisions in traffic

Mind splits

On unexpected topics

Like egg-shells in my grips

Time slips

Like the cadence of infants to the mic with, tight fist

Cupped to feedback whack writs

Indiginious to throw fits

Like that gets the interest of crowds…

But no, time slips because of the imphasis of now

Brought back like spaceships to the ground

Till sound vibrates the meaning of how

I broke through your conscience and left a print on your brow

Eyes cocked and ears squinted

Catching ink drips of the bread crumb trail

Written on the faces of the people standing next to you

So well…

It can be read like brail.

 

Cuz when I thow rhymes I never miss

I spit lines that have to hit

Like a commet to the planet, the damage if you could manage to stand it would brand it a waste land to -be picked clean by bandits

Or rather just whack emcees hungry for an audience

The plan is obvious to me, but obviously, it landed because you’re listening to them

And that means the space retained for tight lyrics was obliterated by my sustained dilevery

There is no mystery contained in this

Cuz when I throw rhymes…

I never miss.