I been driving through Cold Shoulder County,  
where the liquor’s cheap  
but pain stacks a bounty.  
Gas station breath and a rearview lie,  
I chased her name  
through a bloodshot sky.  
The stars don’t talk when the bottle’s full,  
they just flicker out  
when the memories pull.  
Every mile’s a sermon I can’t recite,  
so I sing to the dark  
just to feel alright.
'Cause there ain’t no mercy on the way I bend,  
just barstool hymns  
and nights that never end.  
This voice ain’t gold, it’s rust and smoke,  
I croon from pain  
when my prayers choke.  
If you hear me loud when you’re breaking down,  
I ain’t the cure—  
but I’m still around.
Got a gospel hum in a scratchy throat,  
I’ve loved like fire  
but it never wrote.  
Drove home drunk in a suit of blame,  
sang my truth  
but she burned the frame.  
My mama said, “Son, the pills won’t fix ya,”  
and the preacher nodded  
but he never blessed ya.  
I ain’t a sinner, I’m just too worn  
to fake redemption  
in a suit I’ve torn.
Cold Shoulder County don’t keep score,  
it just lets you drink  
until you’re sore.  
But I remember how her silence hit—  
like a goodbye  
dipped in spit.
Don’t call it healing, call it grit,  
a song from ruin  
that refuses to quit.  
I’ve carved my name in motel dust,  
loved too hard  
and lost my trust.  
But if you’re aching in some backroad storm,  
know this chorus  
keeps you warm.  
Sing with me if the night gets loud,  
we’ll write new hymns  
from a shattered crowd.
There ain’t no mercy on the way I bend,  
just cracked guitars  
and texts I’ll never send.  
My voice ain’t gold, it’s mud and flame,  
but I’ll keep singing  
through the blame.
If you hear me clear in the quiet ache,  
I ain’t the cure—  
but I’ll never break.

No hymn. Just whisper.  
No light. Just flicker.  
I write from where  
the saints don’t linger.
Ink in my veins, blood’s half bourbon,  
rhyme like bruises—grief suburban.  
Truth don’t knock, it breaks the frame,  
I spit through teeth  
that taste like flame.  
Smoke curls from a prayer gone wrong,  
I sing to silence  
that sings along.  
Rust in my lungs, gospel ash,  
hope collapses  
in every flash.
Smoke signal gospel—cut and cast,  
I preach in scars  
that always last.  
No healing hymn, no clean retreat,  
just verse in fire  
and pulse in heat.  
I’m a mix of war and grace,  
love’s a ghost  
I can’t erase.  
Every lyric’s carved in strife—  
this ain’t a song,  
it’s real life.
Bone-deep ache behind the tone,  
each line echoes  
through the stone.  
Cracked beliefs and tethered sin,  
I wear the loss  
beneath my skin.  
Redemption ain’t a gentle name,  
it stings like truth  
I won’t reclaim.  
This ink was earned in broken rooms,  
where crows sing loud  
beneath the gloom.
I coughed out truth through fractured ribs,  
breathed lantern smoke  
on shattered hymns.  
A sinner humming through the storm,  
voice carved soft  
but never warm.  
Let the quiet stretch and swell—  
a breath between  
where fire fell.  
This ain't a bridge—it’s memory raw,  
echo of the pain  
I never saw.
I gave my blood to burn this rite,  
each lyric forged  
in failing light.  
No peace found in velvet skies,  
I’ve danced with ghosts  
who fed me lies.  
Scars talk louder than regrets,  
I rhyme in wounds  
the world forgets.  
Let silence crack, let echoes scream—  
this gospel’s born  
from shattered dreams.
Smoke signal gospel—cut and cast,  
I preach in scars  
that always last.  
No healing hymn, no saintly tune,  
just shattered love  
beneath the moon.  
I ain’t healed, but I’m defined,  
gravel-throated  
by design.  
Every line’s a soul I bled—  
this song won’t soothe—  
it shouts instead.
Let silence swell, let echoes fade,  
I sang with knives  
and truths I made.  
No final word, no saintly close—  
just fire,  
and the smoke that knows

Silhouettes shifting like twilight breeds,  
personalities flicker in broken feeds.  
Switching fast like kaleidoscope storm,  
realities crash in variant form.  
Thoughts unread—who’s voice is this?  
Split in verses you can’t dismiss.  
Fragments cycle through mirrored fate,  
one mind spun in multistate.  
No relief—just disbelief flung,  
venom laced in a breathless tongue.  
Poison coats the hollow ache,  
identity blurred in shadow’s wake.
Empty thoughts on blank-eyed flame,  
silent stares with no reclaimed name.  
Cracked reflections echo deep,  
I rhyme from sleep my others keep.  
Each face stitched to memory’s edge,  
voices cross on spectral ledge.  
Which one speaks through static shell?  
Who bleeds the verse? Who hides it well?
Disjointed logic, rhythm clashed,  
every echo consciousness smashed.  
Split realities—mask parade,  
I spit in tones that rupture shade.  
Truth ain’t fluid—it fractures clean,  
a cipher carved in grayscale sheen.  
No therapy stitched these threads intact,  
I rap from the cortex fate attacked.
So read my thoughts—if you dare to sift,  
through kaleidoscope shards  
where shadows drift.  
Same body, multiple minds equipped—  
this is mirror spit,  
and none eclipse.

They call me insane—no insult, it's legacy,  
sanity slipping in cinematic latency.  
Faded frames, lunatic lens wide,  
I paint reality where ghosts reside.  
Deprived chaos—roots in bound blood,  
trauma scripted in hereditary flood.  
Veins thick with ink, scream-saturated,  
truth spills out—raw, uncalibrated.  
Problematic? Nah, I’m pain’s architect,  
spit blueprints grief ain’t finished yet.  
Damaged past the point of repair,  
I rhyme like collapse is heir to despair.
Rotating Parsons—personalities clash,  
echo chambers where memories thrash.  
Living with D.I.D ain’t fiction, it’s friction,  
my psyche a parliament, voices in conviction.  
You won’t understand—this feeling’s a fracture,  
dropping like glass in a pulse detacher.  
Crazy? Unearthed—dirt on my name,  
I spit stanzas that never behave the same.  Every bar’s stitched from blackout ink,  
I write in blood that most won’t think.  
Savage coded, never sugar-laced,  
I rap like silence’s throat’s been replaced.
My rhymes rotate like identities flex,  
I spit dimensions inside syntax.  
Madness masked? Nah, it’s face revealed—  
I’m the poet that pain has sealed.  
Every verse bleeds emotional sabers,  
each syllable cuts through mental chambers.  
Hookless cipher—this ain’t for peace,  
it’s for the ones who broke in piece.  
Name me chaotic—I’ll wear it proud,  
a crown of static above the crowd.  
Savage by birth, sovereign by bleed.

Centerpiece cracked—poetry’s pulse correct,  
syntax divine, sorrow direct.  
Impossible cadence with roots in grief,  
embedded deep, truth past belief.  
Undeniable—bars stitched in ruin,  
every rhyme another mask I’m brewin’.  
Switching faces, tempo-chased,  
fractured like mirrors I never replaced.  
Jagged reflections dance in flow,  
kaleidoscope panic, mind in snow.  
Flip the beat—turn it inside out,  
sound spirals where my thoughts shout.
Wasting away in verses made steel,  
rhythm convulses with ghost appeal.  
Glitchin’ around in dissonant haze,  
static commands where silence obeys.  
I’m temporary—outta place and loud,  
voice of the storm wrapped in shroud.  
Velocity escalates, rhyme combusts,  
emotion tremors in data dust.  
My syllables sprint through shattered air,  
ciphered screams too real to spare.  
This isn’t rap—this is flare-core pain,  
hookless gospel carved in disdain.
Rooted emotionally—masked and divine,  
I rhyme like collapse was always mine.  
Jagged throne built from tempo’s ash,  
glitchpulse crown in lyrical clash

This canvas mentally maimed—paint screams insane,  
thoughts stitched in distortion, rewiring my brain.  
No sanity lives in these pigment streams,  
just palette knives sculpting torn extremes.  
Insanity woven in stitchcode form,  
shattered syntax born in storm.  
Lines don’t fall—they convulse outta phase,  
temporal scatter locked in sideways blaze.  
Displaced in time, memories glitched,  
brush tips dripping the mind I ditched.  
Frame can’t hold what my chaos breeds—  
I draw in hemorrhages, not color schemes.
Synaptic fusebox—wired for combustion,  
rage like solvent, truth in dysfunction.  
Every stroke a cipher of implosion,  
painted panic wrapped in erosion.  
I ghost across canvases stitched in screams,  
blacked-out verses drown daylight dreams.  
Brush bleeds pixels, rhyme bleeds nerve,  
soul on canvas—nothing left to preserve.  
Clocks don’t tick, they fracture and crawl,  
my gallery's a graveyard where sanity stalls.  
These lines ain’t art—they’re evidence strung,  
of a psyche unsung, with venom on tongue.
Forget the frame—this is rupture art,  
a split-thought ritual where madness starts.  
Color’s just a myth in grayscale hell,  
I paint like I’m carving my own farewell.
I rhyme like caverns collapse mid prayer,  
bars bang harder than truth laid bare.  
This isn’t therapy—it’s lyrical slaughter,  
insight inked in the veins of a martyr.  
Nothing’s composed, it’s savagely thrown,  
shadows splattered in oils unknown.  
So if apex spitters test this piece,  
they’ll choke on stanzas I never release.  
Because I sketch breakdowns in radiant grime,  
and spit sonnets that fracture time.  
Call it rhyme? Nah—it's soul exorcised,  
a cipher sovereign, mentally weaponized.

They didn’t slam the door.  
They just stopped walking back through it.  
And somehow,  
that silence broke louder  
than any goodbye.

I still keep the light on—  
not because they’re coming back,  
but because some part of me  
believes in ghosts  
that look like second chances.

Sometimes I hear their voice  
in a room they never entered,  
feel my hands reach  
for a warmth that no longer answers.

I don’t forgive what they did.  
But I’ve forgiven the shadow  
that lingers on my porch  
like a memory too soft to bury.

I keep the light on.  
Even when it flickers.  
Even when I’m the only one  
who ever sees it.

Because somewhere in the dark  
is still a version of me  
that believes in return  
without expectation.