developing an art freestyle

I got writer's block like a muhfuck, remainin stuck with no luck,

So i'm just writtin stuff, making sure my finger's got a cocky strut,

lest' my shit only remains shit and never has any mold it can fit

This real grind-grit, No improv skit, this is me truly tryin let it rip,

on my bey blade shit from when I was a kid, people blew my lid, I blew

the blade with the blue tip, hit them in the dick n' made them take a seat

put that shit on repeat and that's how I ended up gettin street-beat

 

it was just my mom showin me I was a dee-de-dee, I saw that, see

my mom was often lazy, four kids, get's you wishin to be pushin daisies

and THEN there's me, five kids, you're already planting them, planning for hades

but I learned my manners, keeps hidden other's blammers, soul-rammers, no less

is my real life grammer, but I keeps it on the shitter fo any rappader

 

just cause my thought's stay scattered, and if my sentences really mattered

I would have to slaughter tattered rapper's, who release battered matter

simpler than the desires of the Knight's of Templar, yet I'm still the defend-ar

of simple poetic speaking, depicting nothing but vio-lence worse than i-ro-land's

 

My bars suggest my vocal cords conveyed words through a cryogenic process

Acting this hard with the confidence of the Czars, blastin bullshit back to mars

I've gone real far on this freestyle-blah blah blah

At the end of the day, I'm still a novice kickin noxious spit

like I was water monitor,

flows smooth like creek-water

bartered my art on this comp-u-tar

my computer became a water-monitor