This is IT,
the night clones mech cabrone,
A twisted lyricist calling on all cerebral cyclones,
sick with this and lit with a micro tone that i micro doze ,
flames burn as I grip this mic like the mind exposed to our quickened kind ,
I'm higher and in ya fuckin head, I'm all alone,
without a path cus I know that i will never own the show, notebooks, pros, cons and vomit on clothes
Yeah,
They told me to stop trying, to stop flying, stop grinding, to stop crying in my life alone,
My reply signs the life of a crown, ya know,
Come to film a set but left alive inside a solid stone spectrum, just a facet of my own confused wack fractal
Notebook pro,
Life is over and over exposed, clones alive without a vision of a life that knows, it's kinda gross,
Like my salary, maybe I can afford some cleaner clothes or another battery,
Heart like Bartleby battered from all your savagery, so I'm savagely existing through time and space with extraterrestrial cavalry from interplanetary spaces,
Written in this molded case, I'm folding time in-between , night all up in my face, reconfigured this fuckin place so y'all could spit in my fuckin face,
And this ain't even a race war, more like a case of mangy flesh left from my wicked running chainsaw,
My brains raw, it likes to walk all around, on-top, around and inside every single fuckin one of all, so,
Notebook pro,
So shook, so yo, go look bro,
I'm so cooked I don't need the hugs, inside I'm hugged from home,
the core is all outside me, inside is space built beyond your collective memory of thought,
An open cemetery more like a ses pool of death written in Glenorchy,
Notebook bro, just come look and witness lyrics thrown like light hooks, spinning backflip kicks
