I heard i cant write, im just not that kind. heard i can't be deep, my cranium's 6ft high
dont even have a rhyme scheme, amorphous all my lines,
well, i can only see the sky above; i think im in a hole, im so deep, i hear people burn in hell, see, they concieve facially,hence percieve suprficially.
What it takes what i give, abit more than ink, intricate and countless process like fur stands on mink.
I fight all sterotyping me as just another wannabe, with more lines than addidas the three stripe company.
mostly because science and art just dont mix, they claim that the two are extremly mutually exclusive , Well if my math is out of this world and my art out of place, you're welcome to call me the exraterrestrial lyricist, call me an accessory to murder; i know im not guilty but its my pen that bleeds on paper and like the fugees kills you gently.
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