You can't Hit This (feat. BT)

This smell.

Beyond clothes or skin.

Repulsive. Rot lives within.

Smells of false confidence, burnt smoke, dirty toke.

Let me get some air.

Intuitively clear. Rejection. Violence. Incoherence.

That's all that lives here.

The energy is stagnant, disturbing. There is a manic forcefulness that has.

No Guts. No Glory.

Secret. Yet strikingly exposed.

Ya, Cohen is right.

Everybody Knows.

Eyes that can't save face.

Between a Rock. And hard place.

Stay clear old the Devil's den. You only sip Perversion.

A memorized and rehearsed porno version.

Wide awake, a whole house but only in crusty sheets.

Believing you spew truth with you tone.

This dog has nothing but a dirty bone.

It's a character. It's been curated.

I will not engage.

Ya, this will not. Be. Baited.

These walls breath insanity, psychosis, catastrophe.

A facade. Confined in a false mastery.

Delusion screaming with every breath.

Behind a locked door, while your life deserved more.

Scared of your own home, living on unstable floor.

Addiction strokes the deeply disturbed sexual tokes.

Stagnant breath that does not rest.

Stubbed your soul on the widening crack.

Permanently divided fantasy from fact.

Once considered friends.

Miss her.

Fuck You.

This is where the sidewalk ends.