Open Mic: Poetic Gymnastics

It's healthy things, that make me sick,
And meaningless scripts, that make me think/
These are systematic hygienic lyrics that read up like endogenics/
Releasing mental sickness somehow exothermic/
Sending condolences to your family with rhymes so toxic/
Killing your five sense twice as fast than uterus menses grasping the pad or dustsheets/
Upbeats awakening mummies which studies proclaimed extinct/
You should indulge in some good music holmes/
Then you'll visit seldom, your ethical homes in delusional domes/
My spits are erupted from dubious stones and chemical foams/
You sitting on digital thrones plated in skins with typical tones leading fictional drones/
This ain't no biblical show, my lyrical flow more like a miracle glow/
With thoughts produced in reciprocal ohms/
My skull is made from biophysical chrome toast this kid into mythical bones/
I guess looking forward is a forward
on its own/
My spits been sick before I was known by symmetrical clones/
Singular with concerns to my phone, a plague with concerns to my zone/
A youngster with visions to being grown, a star with a weird tone/
I seem to have a light shone, don't be the one that was never shown the magic of the stone lit comb/
I'm a multiple grave and I will never change a fold, mind state so high I'm gettin airsick/
The sicker the sick spitter the quicker he splits scriptures/
My shit's tighter than two of Orion's rings,
I'm dragging the planet's land including desert sand with a slight hand gesture/
I keep my feet on the ground with my head up like modern architecture/
You are two-faced like Joker's plastic surgeon/
Me and you? it's a verse versus the curses of verses driving virgins with the inevitable urge/
I throw rhymes hotter than a woman with the perfect curves/
It occurs i'm on the verge of getting on your nerves/
Never backed outta face offs,pound for pound I take your head on/
And swollen wombs giving birth to corpses on top of catacombs/