They call me insane—no insult, it's legacy,  
sanity slipping in cinematic latency.  
Faded frames, lunatic lens wide,  
I paint reality where ghosts reside.  
Deprived chaos—roots in bound blood,  
trauma scripted in hereditary flood.  
Veins thick with ink, scream-saturated,  
truth spills out—raw, uncalibrated.  
Problematic? Nah, I’m pain’s architect,  
spit blueprints grief ain’t finished yet.  
Damaged past the point of repair,  
I rhyme like collapse is heir to despair.
Rotating Parsons—personalities clash,  
echo chambers where memories thrash.  
Living with D.I.D ain’t fiction, it’s friction,  
my psyche a parliament, voices in conviction.  
You won’t understand—this feeling’s a fracture,  
dropping like glass in a pulse detacher.  
Crazy? Unearthed—dirt on my name,  
I spit stanzas that never behave the same.  Every bar’s stitched from blackout ink,  
I write in blood that most won’t think.  
Savage coded, never sugar-laced,  
I rap like silence’s throat’s been replaced.
My rhymes rotate like identities flex,  
I spit dimensions inside syntax.  
Madness masked? Nah, it’s face revealed—  
I’m the poet that pain has sealed.  
Every verse bleeds emotional sabers,  
each syllable cuts through mental chambers.  
Hookless cipher—this ain’t for peace,  
it’s for the ones who broke in piece.  
Name me chaotic—I’ll wear it proud,  
a crown of static above the crowd.  
Savage by birth, sovereign by bleed.

Centerpiece cracked—poetry’s pulse correct,  
syntax divine, sorrow direct.  
Impossible cadence with roots in grief,  
embedded deep, truth past belief.  
Undeniable—bars stitched in ruin,  
every rhyme another mask I’m brewin’.  
Switching faces, tempo-chased,  
fractured like mirrors I never replaced.  
Jagged reflections dance in flow,  
kaleidoscope panic, mind in snow.  
Flip the beat—turn it inside out,  
sound spirals where my thoughts shout.
Wasting away in verses made steel,  
rhythm convulses with ghost appeal.  
Glitchin’ around in dissonant haze,  
static commands where silence obeys.  
I’m temporary—outta place and loud,  
voice of the storm wrapped in shroud.  
Velocity escalates, rhyme combusts,  
emotion tremors in data dust.  
My syllables sprint through shattered air,  
ciphered screams too real to spare.  
This isn’t rap—this is flare-core pain,  
hookless gospel carved in disdain.
Rooted emotionally—masked and divine,  
I rhyme like collapse was always mine.  
Jagged throne built from tempo’s ash,  
glitchpulse crown in lyrical clash

This canvas mentally maimed—paint screams insane,  
thoughts stitched in distortion, rewiring my brain.  
No sanity lives in these pigment streams,  
just palette knives sculpting torn extremes.  
Insanity woven in stitchcode form,  
shattered syntax born in storm.  
Lines don’t fall—they convulse outta phase,  
temporal scatter locked in sideways blaze.  
Displaced in time, memories glitched,  
brush tips dripping the mind I ditched.  
Frame can’t hold what my chaos breeds—  
I draw in hemorrhages, not color schemes.
Synaptic fusebox—wired for combustion,  
rage like solvent, truth in dysfunction.  
Every stroke a cipher of implosion,  
painted panic wrapped in erosion.  
I ghost across canvases stitched in screams,  
blacked-out verses drown daylight dreams.  
Brush bleeds pixels, rhyme bleeds nerve,  
soul on canvas—nothing left to preserve.  
Clocks don’t tick, they fracture and crawl,  
my gallery's a graveyard where sanity stalls.  
These lines ain’t art—they’re evidence strung,  
of a psyche unsung, with venom on tongue.
Forget the frame—this is rupture art,  
a split-thought ritual where madness starts.  
Color’s just a myth in grayscale hell,  
I paint like I’m carving my own farewell.
I rhyme like caverns collapse mid prayer,  
bars bang harder than truth laid bare.  
This isn’t therapy—it’s lyrical slaughter,  
insight inked in the veins of a martyr.  
Nothing’s composed, it’s savagely thrown,  
shadows splattered in oils unknown.  
So if apex spitters test this piece,  
they’ll choke on stanzas I never release.  
Because I sketch breakdowns in radiant grime,  
and spit sonnets that fracture time.  
Call it rhyme? Nah—it's soul exorcised,  
a cipher sovereign, mentally weaponized.

They didn’t slam the door.  
They just stopped walking back through it.  
And somehow,  
that silence broke louder  
than any goodbye.

I still keep the light on—  
not because they’re coming back,  
but because some part of me  
believes in ghosts  
that look like second chances.

Sometimes I hear their voice  
in a room they never entered,  
feel my hands reach  
for a warmth that no longer answers.

I don’t forgive what they did.  
But I’ve forgiven the shadow  
that lingers on my porch  
like a memory too soft to bury.

I keep the light on.  
Even when it flickers.  
Even when I’m the only one  
who ever sees it.

Because somewhere in the dark  
is still a version of me  
that believes in return  
without expectation.

I don’t miss them.  
I miss the shape I became  
when they looked at me  
like I mattered.

I miss who I could almost be—  
before the weight of leaving  
taught my reflection to flinch.

Now,  
I carry echoes that don’t belong to me.  
Laughter I didn’t laugh.  
Affection that calcified  
somewhere between memory and myth.

I keep their names  
in the soft part of my mouth—  
not to speak,  
just to feel  
the wound hum back.

Loss isn’t always absence.  
Sometimes it’s residue.  
The kind that won’t wash out,  
even when the body tries to forget  
where it bled.

Sweat stings my face—  
not from effort,  
but from holding it together  
too long.

Something’s gone quiet  
deep inside.  
Not peace.  
Just absence.

My heart feels hollowed  
by repetition.  
Even pain gets bored  
when it’s expected.

I’m suffocating  
under normalized collapse.  
Spacing out like it’s ritual.  
Fading  
like my body forgot how to stay loud.

Ran thinned.  
Worn through.  
Care spilled out  
and didn’t come back.

There’s no scream.  
Just dust in the throat.  
Just me,  
still here,  
watching the nothing pile up  
like it might mean something again.

There isn’t one of me.  
There never was.

I am a constellation of echoes—  
names I wore out,  
faces I reshaped in panic,  
versions of self collapsed in each other’s arms.

Each fragment learned how to breathe  
before the rest could speak.  
Each survived  
the moment I didn’t.

We don’t always agree.  
But we carry the weight together.

Sometimes I wake in a different voice.  
Sometimes I forget which pain belongs to which part.  
But we are all mine,  
and none of us were chosen.

Don’t ask who I really am.  
That’s the wrong question.  
Ask:  
who held the memory  
when I couldn’t anymore?  
Who took the blow  
so one of me could stay soft?

We fracture to remain whole.  
We rebuild in ruin.  
This is not disorder.  
This is design.