Product of circumstances

I ain’t cold—I just learned feelin’ gets you killed.

Call it violent, I call it stayin’ real.

World tried to break me quiet…

I broke loud instead.

Ready to fight god

Ayo, I don’t sleep, I stall—

Mind loop glitchin’, got murder on call.

Posted in the cut with a static pulse,

Feelin’ like a bootleg soul gone false.

Ain’t no angels in this sector, choom—

Just dead feeds and trauma fumes.

Ran the block with a chip full of scars,

Dodged strays, caught heat under fake neon stars.

Know how a burner feels jammed in the ribs,

Still choked a gonk out while I started to fizz.

He cried like a runt when the plasma came,

Too scared to stain his hands, play this game.

Calmin’ the God Killer—he glitchin’ again.

He whisper in code, tell me “let’s spin the end.”

⸻

I hate this shell, but I love the scrappin’,

Wanna flatline slow but I’m better at clappin’.

Got a deathwish ride, full tank, no brakes—

Fightin’ like each swing might fix my mistakes.

Built for the wreckage, stitched with heat,

Still breathin’ in rage where hope won’t reach.

Hardwired to self-terminate, still don’t fold—

But I dream ’bout red screens and bodies cold.

⸻

Yo, I ain’t healed—I’m patched at best.

Cortex fried, but I fake the rest.

Every smile’s a reroute, every laugh a front,

Just maskin’ the urge to spark that blunt… of steel.

You ever stare at your hands like they don’t belong?

Like you code ‘em for hugs but they built for wrong?

Got blood on my fit, got ghosts in my head

Every fight’s a loop, every choke feels good.

Ain’t no therapist in the gutter, slot—

Only medbay hacks and a blackout spot.

God Killer’s hummin’, low and sweet,

Sayin’, “Peace is for corpses—get back on your feet.”

⸻

I hate this shell, but I love the scrappin’,

Wanna flatline slow but I’m better at clappin’.

Got a deathwish ride, full tank, no brakes—

Fightin’ like each swing might fix my mistakes.

Built for the wreckage, stitched with heat,

Still breathin’ in rage where hope won’t reach.

Hardwired to self-terminate, still don’t fold—

But I dream ’bout red screens and bodies cold.

⸻

I been swingin’ since the data got dark,

Feelin’ like a failed clone with a broken spark.

Ain’t no comfort, just kill codes and kicks,

A blunt force priest in a world full of glitches.

Tryna end it? Yeah. Tried it before.

But the blade always dull when my fist want war.

Now I scrap for a reason I ain’t even picked—

Just dodgin’ death long enough to get clipped.

God Killer’s buzzin’—he beggin’ to breathe.

One more fight, one more soul to leave.

⸻

I hate this shell, but I love the scrappin’,

Wanna flatline slow but I’m better at clappin’.

Got a deathwish ride, full tank, no brakes—

Fightin’ like each swing might fix my mistakes.

Built for the wreckage, stitched with heat,

Still breathin’ in rage where hope won’t reach.

Hardwired to self-terminate, still don’t fold—

But I move like death’s mine to control.