the bullets move in rhythm... Every one released is like riding a tempo... The Architect lives inside of my mental... the kind of potential I create for each line is suspenseful... enough to give the philosophical meaning of Violence? a pencil...

I leave the streets for good... but I'm still in the rap...
The villain is back... look at the life go, as he's killing the track...
I'm the filter for what these syllables lack...
I grill em' n' flat- en' the foundation they were building, for that?
I sit back and watch the pillars collapse...
Trust me... I had love for the game, but my comfort's changed...
now it's something deranged... lost souls, giving up in exchange...
They wallow and bask in all of it, when I'm calling it trash...
History in the making for the future, when they follow the past...
This is Apollo, at last... beaten the Russian he lost to...
in spirit... those who want the drive? They can suck the exhaust fumes
from out the back of the whip until the revving causes the axle
to shift... tell the Monestary Monk... I am a master at this...
And his ass don't exist... I don't look calm...
because I've made it be... now they're relating me to the story, like A&E...
Ha... they're not ready for the calibur, X...
Smash their watermelon in Gallagher sweats...
A style so complex... the rubric for it's too enormous
to read... formative keys performed into mental ornament themes...
From Norman's debris... blood on his orange little sleeves
As he's pulling those showers drapes back with a knife in his hand...
Fuck it... that's right with the plan...
Ecstasy tablets, broken Vicodin's jammed
Inside of his van's glove compartment, trying to cram the last of it
inside of his damn... mouth, while he's hiding it and...
Idling in a Idaho am....
-- bulance drive way, at 5 A.... M...
on Friday... man... that's the shit that I'm on...
Get clocked out... every script's an alarm... putting em' in visual harm...
Illustrating the model...
Carried by Aristotle... once the hear the throttle gears? the motto's clear...
E Mano mirrors, Pablo...
C'mon, bro, share the taco...
Ha... yeah, I'm a feisty fiesta...
These kids are clowns, they live the life of a Jester...
And fuck around with children, like a Molester...
So what gives em' the right to contest ta'... rifle I pressed on
the side of your temple?
Guy, I was gentle... plus, the bullets move in rhythm...
Every one released is like riding a tempo...
The Architect lives inside of my mental...
the kind of potential I create for each line is suspenseful...
enough to give the philosophical meaning of Violence? a pencil...
wow... now think about that for a sec...
the illustration of graphics perfected by a tactical weapon
of rapping perception...
cats who lack the connection
to be components of concept... go for the complex schemes
that they use without knowing the context...
It's like I'm holding the objects of reality to control your subconscious...
And there's nothing people can do until I've seeped in my groove...
Yeah, I'm speaking to you...
*points*
Yeah. YOU!
The guy glancing at his screen right now with a blank stare...
in his rank chair thinking "Now, what gives em' the right to say the shit that he likes?"
Here is some advice: I don't give a shit...
I scribble this off of the top in intervals, limitless...
-ly ... n' if you agree with what you're seeing, friend?
Take that car of yours and go over the median...