me: *writes godly stuff all the time* certain: I'm not fazed, I hang around bb all day I don't see what the big deal is anyway, you're just plain old bb to me)

[big baby]

A brief bespoken life, demon. Cloaked in fire. The blood I bleed's like open geysers that seep through opal fibers, the meek, unsocial guy who speaks in vocal highs. The way I see the homeless, I'm perceived as a hopeless. Lye is the caustic solution of sodium hydroxide, the agnostic illusion, I'm a caustic solution, stand on podiums in mach drive. The diagnostic is simple, woeful. And riddled. Pledge to locusts when you're approaching the god. The sharp knifes edge is focal, cause that's the point I'm focusing on. Devoted islamists, see my devotion to self, by noticing the way my chakra points open and melt through my epidermis, the welts are scars like in fight club. I'll suck the blood out of the leech that it sucked in, it's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do nothing. I sometimes flip the fuck out when I put screw in the keyhole and it's stuck. I've got a thousand keys, but none can open this door. Go to the beach and wear a fedora, hipsters look at me like I'ma senora. That's spanish for misses. Wonder if Sadam has his 72 virgins and visited sodom and gomorrah? Plethora galore, the scent that wrecks the door, put lamblood on the entrance if you don't want the holy ghost to reach you, aura smoke beseach you, slowly roll a beatle, and ask if you want to smoke, the weed too. But, I don't, its psychoactive, my brains always in a slightly manic state of mind, the way I change and slant a rhyme, depicts the dyslexic that lives inside me. He's 32 years old and loves dog. Or himself. I don't know, cause if you look in the mirror, the redrum turns purple and my dog turns into a god. My ciphers are news stories, you should pay a subscription and in its depth, This is ancient egyptian cryptic text