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.