This goes out to the wanna bees,
thinking they're wordsmiths,
Stuck in the hive mind no abilities,
senseless bombastic petty parties.
Lacking any rhythm,
I stick to a subject and kill it.
Call me Dr. Malpractice.
No indecision when the constants collide, cracking cocky egos as I write.
I make you
See my vibe
Feel my flow
Hear my weight
Every line blessed by Pablo
as I violate your pupils,
dilated by greatness.
My heart's an acid trip no argument bish.
That's parallelism done right, shit.