To be a madman, yeah, I’m not exactly sane.Peter Pan is for kids,call me Captain Hook by name.I run amok when a concoction from an anarchist cookbookdisappears straight up my nose.When a rolled-up joint starts acting like my plow,Add to that, furthermore, more and more till the bill works as a sail,I drift past limits you were scared to even fail,Head high, teeth clenched, leaving gravity on bail.I don’t flex chains, I flex fractures in the mind,Leave dents in your thoughts like crowbars in time.I don’t bark for approval, I salivate truth,Bite through your persona, leave pulp in the booth.I weaponize silence, let paranoia bloom,You hear me even gone - I haunt negative room.I don’t chase ghosts, I am the unfinished thought,The itch in your skull that the pills never fought.Breathing through spite, my pulse keeps receipts,Every slight catalogued, filed under “teeth.”I don’t snap quick - I simmer, slow burn,Let you feel safe while the pressure returns.I speak in breakdowns, syntax unclean,Bars sound like courtrooms inside your dreams.No heroes,no morals, just nerves getting stripped,I don’t cross lines - I erase what they meant.This ain’t anger, it’s architecture, planned,Building collapse with a mic in my hand.You rap for the crowd, I rap for thecrackIn the mirror where you can’t ever look back.To be a madman, yeah, I’m not exactly sane.Peter Pan is for kids,call me Captain Hook by name.I run amok when a concoction froman anarchist cookbookdisappears straight up my nose.When a rolled-up joint starts acting likemy plow,Add to that, furthermore, more and more till the bill works as a sail,I drift past limitsyou were scared to even fail,Head high, teeth clenched, leaving gravity on bail.Idon’t scream rage, I mumble verdicts,Watchyou unravel trying to interpret. I leave breadcrumbs made of doubt anddread,You follow your own voice till it turns on your head.My thoughts don’t race -theystalk.Pause outside your comfort, then knock.I don’t need threats, I plant ideas,Let them ferment into private fears.I speak fluent absence, fluent decay,Every word feels late, like “too much to say.”I make mirrors feel hostile, rooms feel wired,Even silence sounds tired when I’ve been inspired.Your mind tries to flee, but I’malready there,In the half-formed thought you won’t finish or share.I don’t break you fast - I stretch out the doubt,Till you’re unsure what you’re in or how to get out.This ain’t horrorcore, this is close-range truth,No blood, just the sound of excuses removed.When I leave the mic, nothing looks the same,You’re still standing - just allergic to your own name.When a rolled-up joint starts acting like my plow,Add more, furthermore, till the bill works as a sail,I don’t end paths — I remove the how,You don’t fall apart, you simply… fail to prevail.No noise, no warning, no scene to recall,Just files getting closed where you thought you stood tall.If you feel a pause where your future should be,
That’s not bad luck…
that’s policy
