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.