Nerves worn, my calm is tattered and torn. I forewarned you that I was born a heathen, philosophical and forlorn. I adorn blank pages with poetic inscriptions, the friction of my life, my pains and decisions. Encrypted versus laced with descriptive, scalpel like precision. I'm sharp, quick with a pen. I'm a little bit dark, if I'm diggin' deep within. My sins are of flesh and blood, it is what it is. My ill mentality breaks the monotony, not mixing well with practicality. My abnormality makes me, I am what I am. Do you feel me, cuz I'm sometimes hard to understand.