Late Nights Freestyle

[Intro: Sinclair]
Whenever I feel myself starting to let go
I always hold on
Whether it be friends or family, or something else
I always find something to hold on to
But lately...
I feel like I’m slipping

[Verse: Sinclair]
I'm feeling like I'm dead, dissonance
Trapped in within my head, frictionless
Grasping out for every ledge, infinite
Blackness and darkness spread, innocence

Lost, to never be found
Squashed forever and ground, I won't ever amount to what
I want to be, so fuck the cheese, I ain't
No fucking king, but from the rubble, brings

A sleeve, which conceals, but a couple things
When you see every reel, and they run the scenes
You'll see why I feel that I want to scream
You'll see why I'd kill for this fucking dream

So fuck you beings till I lay in my hearse
Or my brain doesn't work, I ain't changing these words
I'll lay every verse with a layer of hate
From the skank which had banged then gave me to this earth

I am blatantly cursed so my cadences curse
I was made in the shade so I blurt so berserk
From the dirt I'll emerge, I've been burnt and then served
I am certain asserting the worst of my birth

Will work and insure that I'm heard when in verse
I'm inverse of inert, I'll exert till I burst
I'm immersed in my words, I deserve to be heard
You're a servant to herds or a serpent alert that

They try to live in chromatic heavens
Change life to give them gold, cash, and spendings
Make time to listen, most haven’t, then when
Fate’s blind to written, cold, graphic dead ends

You blame masses, make change, you’re stagnant
Your prayers are asking for the same attractions
That your brain's been trapped in, fables change your accent
Claiming danger's absent, making danger active, but

I'm independent, intending an insurrection
Intensively it's impending, incentive to be insensitive
I'm indifferent to inferior idiots interferences
You incinerated my innocence, you're infinitely ignorant

So don’t presume you knew, who Lewis was or Lewis is
You’re clueless bitch a few of ya view spewing this as hubris, it
Isn’t. This is music with writtens spit when the moon is lit
With a view to abuse by bitches, I assume who I am, you assume who this is
It's Sinclair