No Pulse

No Pulse

You poked a poet.
Now you bleed in bars.
This ain’t a battle — it’s a burial with background music.

I don’t diss — I do autopsies in verse,
Pick apart your persona, then flip it in a hearse.
You the product of hype, I’m the result of war,
You rap for applause, I rap to even the score.

Every tweet you drop just reveals your fear,
I don’t need subs — I appear, you disappear.
You mimic style, I embody craft,
You flex on reels while I edit your epitaph.

Tried to play giant — forgot the feet matter,
I broke every idol you built with weak chatter.
You tryna brand your fraud — I brand truth,
You tryna age like wine — I uncork proof.

This that pen to temple, breath to gravel,
Truth to speaker, soul to battle.
No lies, no PR spin,
You died the second you let that mic in.

You ain’t real — just loud and desperate,
Wrote checks in bars that your soul can’t debit.
You tryna trend on borrowed pain,
While I carve my name through flood and flame.

This ain’t rap — this is spine collapse,
This is look-in-the-mirror and face the facts.
Your whole discography? Smoke and mirrors,
While I write albums that make ghosts shiver.

I don’t clap back — I collapse your frame,
You a whisper in history, I engrave my name.
This that grown man verse, no emojis,
This that legend talk — no phonies.

[Outro - Spoken Word Style]
When they study this tape,
They won’t mention your name...
Just the silence that followed mine.
No pulse. No crown. No trace.
Just one mic,
and one grave.