i'm zero only because i could have no other name,
the fatalism of my nomenclature puts all your other pretenses to shame,
cast the blame on the media, nah, fuck it, i'm too much of a man to front like that,
i'm blunt like that,
so misanthropic, talking to you requires a stunt, like that--
fuck the man, my likeness'll be artificially generated;
fuck the computer, i can't bring myself to be so overstated;
i'll stick to the random access memory of neurons and imagine myself as ebon-plated;
i'm talkin' so black that light can't even see me and so sharp it trips and gets eviscerated
to a point where you might as well call me Aureliano cause I've gotten so isolated;
i'm already so focused on the kernels of my knowledge, i doubt i'll ever be placated;
fuck it, the rhyme was awkward, but i never was a fan of end verse;
it's part of why i never spit impromptu, it always hits the pen first;
my brain works slower than mc's, and even with the extra time, I still sound worse than Fred Durst;
shit, "master of the ceremony" still reeks of days of whips and chains
only goes to show that even the purest of purists' art forms bear the stains
of the brainwashing that keeps my brothers using words whose meaning pertains
to an antediluvian system equating our lives in terms of losses and gains;
i'd love to free my people, liberate the earth, and sever the harness and reins
and the yoke, but the real joke is the truth about what all our blood contains;
i hate to be so new-age, but beyond what our countenance feigns
is nothing more than a collection of elements, intelligence is plain
bullshit, a fallacy erected so long ago no accurate memory remains
of the true face of creation--
is this still making sense? or am I completely
fucking nuts, I broke it again, but fuck the meter;
my thoughts are walking, fuck Nietzsche, you're still dead motherfucker, while for now my heart's still a beater
and I spit lyrical canopies so lush my mom should have called me Demeter
and my carriage is more like a motherfucking snowspeeder.
More exercise.
the fatalism of my nomenclature puts all your other pretenses to shame,
cast the blame on the media, nah, fuck it, i'm too much of a man to front like that,
i'm blunt like that,
so misanthropic, talking to you requires a stunt, like that--
fuck the man, my likeness'll be artificially generated;
fuck the computer, i can't bring myself to be so overstated;
i'll stick to the random access memory of neurons and imagine myself as ebon-plated;
i'm talkin' so black that light can't even see me and so sharp it trips and gets eviscerated
to a point where you might as well call me Aureliano cause I've gotten so isolated;
i'm already so focused on the kernels of my knowledge, i doubt i'll ever be placated;
fuck it, the rhyme was awkward, but i never was a fan of end verse;
it's part of why i never spit impromptu, it always hits the pen first;
my brain works slower than mc's, and even with the extra time, I still sound worse than Fred Durst;
shit, "master of the ceremony" still reeks of days of whips and chains
only goes to show that even the purest of purists' art forms bear the stains
of the brainwashing that keeps my brothers using words whose meaning pertains
to an antediluvian system equating our lives in terms of losses and gains;
i'd love to free my people, liberate the earth, and sever the harness and reins
and the yoke, but the real joke is the truth about what all our blood contains;
i hate to be so new-age, but beyond what our countenance feigns
is nothing more than a collection of elements, intelligence is plain
bullshit, a fallacy erected so long ago no accurate memory remains
of the true face of creation--
is this still making sense? or am I completely
fucking nuts, I broke it again, but fuck the meter;
my thoughts are walking, fuck Nietzsche, you're still dead motherfucker, while for now my heart's still a beater
and I spit lyrical canopies so lush my mom should have called me Demeter
and my carriage is more like a motherfucking snowspeeder.
More exercise.
jimslade:
I just read your words. Keep on keeping on.