Eggs
 

Trip in a foxhole prone to apocalypse thought roam.
Bones of economists dot shores rose to the rafters in your back porch.
Raptured rocks roll backward clocks off coarse, of course
cats roar from mountains sounding war calls through psychic satellites.
I slapped a lid on my eyes and fastened tight,
mapped god on a checkered board of black and white.
Jet to second floor, sand bad the staircase, pack it tight.
Suck your weight up, and last the night, tucked tornado feed in fajita.
Tasting like a catch unwinding back from sight. Sometimes I laugh inside
my catacomb to fuck with the rats endorsing engorging on honeycombs,
never having pondered the after-blight.
Some go home and ghost half the tribe.
Some roast bones and smoke afterlife.
Hundred spore race traced a hundred more white eggs placed defensively,
to syphon genetic evolution ooze from the remnants of your vice gripped
crew crunched into one cell, loose in a blood pool pumped out a blue moon
that spun out the sun house too soon.
I rap stuff that fucking sucks and that's just what I want. I'm not a cool dude.
I'm a god with few rules. Loose in a jaw that shoots jewels. I'm fun sounds
from a fools noose. I'm gun sounds rushing the blood of a cute crowd
shuffling birth certificates, hustling words of wisdom to curb kicked children,
haven't cued a stencil etching since third grade detention.
I'm a crouton in a soggy salad gained consciousness by buying it with common sense, I want to hawk it watching the army dig defensive trench for offensive stance spanning foreign land sponsored by bomb threats at your command.
Stretching troops like accordions spitting whatever tunes the woman choose your court them with through bleeding teeth in a bulging neck.
But even I can't call it as it is when it's big enough to sprawl its fingertips over my snow globe dome and rock my little ship from top to bottom shift.
Speeding by apocalypse prone to roaming back of heads that shrink when wicked witch zaps them with reality unraveling from her subtly breathing black dress, wrung of factor acids every hatching of a hundred black eggs.

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I'll RTF.
I'll also feed randomly tomorrow.

Alot of this seems like your just rhyming for the sake of rhyming. No real goal in the content of it. Just my take. Had some cool syllable matches scattered throughout. I think you need to work on trying to format an outcome. Give yourself a topic. Find a beggining middle and endpoi t and then just start rhyming to achieve what you idea was. This was more like a rhyme flex than anything else. Just didnt have any meaning for me

This went downhill real fast...you need to change sumthin' dramatically before your placed in the category of bein' a herb.