Netcees - My nose burned from the scent of a cigarette...

V1:
nose burned from the scent of a cigarette/
back seat of the civic, and I’m badly envisioning/
All the tallies I scribbled in from anxiety pressing/
Lost the proper words and not to sure describing the presences/
But.. all I know is that us dying is imminent/
I think about it more since Iya's been heaven sent../
I can say that I'm good and I'm fine as I ever been, but like crooked cops I'd only be just hiding the evidence/
Won't be subject to failure, nor be behind it like predicts/
Depression is hellish i only relish the betterment/
feel the pain in my heart, it expands till my chest rips.../
Similar to reps from bench pressing to better lift..
Agony on shoulders, pass me into a coma/
Bastard teen with the okra, patience be extra thin/
adrenaline rushing, the edge set like defensive ends/
The pen'll get clutched when I vent tension and severe it../
From my heart strings..dancing on em' like puppets do/
the graphic anger does the Macarena and bugaloo/
disappear with no traces, switch the gear and hit the gas, miss the veer and the lanes end/
Feelin contagious... now I'm feeling complacent/
looked through mirrors for ages, it's so clear and so vacant, but what appears in it's strange is...my appearance is faceless../
Use to fear that the basement was my ceiling in life/
I was talkin to the walls, but could only hear them at night../

V2:
5 in the morning, Rubbed my eyes seen a demon/
He funneled lies with a cunnin' smile seen him leavin'/
Fresh full of memories, the pictures stale/
He desperate for energy, he's pissed, missed and failed/
He'd twist wrist when he writ this and hell'/
Get a quick lick and bail...He did this no tales/
Yo'..
But He don't talk about that trappin' shit, strictly on some rapping shit, but as it sits,it wouldn't be to hard to catch the passing drift/
Yall like follow trends , seeing models thin, judging other people they don't feel they should follow it/
So what the fuck is up...? Am I just weird for it? I don't play the puppet enough?
Excuse me, While I still have functional lungs/
But I don't give a fuck bout' no assumptions you brung/
And tell me why These lames sworm/
5'6 but I'm lightning when I write this, homie and that's brain storm/
I flame torch any critic that criticize/
mimic my mental vibe, cynical twisted individual that be living lies/
Y'all ignorant as hell, so pin the frickin' tale/
You all blind, while they lurk in the shadows like they splinter cell/
They Tom Clancy to Rob Chauncey, the system failed/
Tell these rappers well done, instead of giving em Ls/
Cause thats how don fancies all his dinner meals/