by Michael Dean Pinkham
(Wiscasset, Maine)

My purpose is trivial, finding nothing worth something through every mineral.
Switching intervals with my emotions, glued to my bed with the notion that I'll never find somebody that understands my kind, somebody who understands my mind.
Everybody who sees me is blind when it comes to the inside, so that's where I hide.
Radioactive cranium filled with uranium, locked air tight in my skull made of titanium.
Thoughts untraceable, this masterminds irreplaceable.
Every verse is capable of spitting fire like bowser, blowing up every browser on my
This beats bout to get a hella loud shaking every house in my town.
Every stupid fucking haters about to get clowned, I may be 14 but that don't mean shit.
These bars are putting me in a raging fit, I'm the one equation you'll never get.
Calculus, trying to calculate this shit will get you nowhere.
My mental states a shooting flare, rising every second.
This will be the first time I've gotten close to heaven.
I've been pissed at life since I was eleven.
I pulled out a knife when I was seven, stealing shit from the 7/11.
My names the biggest thing since 9/11
Recording this shit on my School iPad, playing this shitty beat on one speaker I like to call this the heat.
My birth was a burden and my life's a defeat.
Fuck this shit.

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