Circling (feat inner voice)

I’m pacing my kitchen like pacing my cadence, bars in the fridge, but they’re stale when I plate ’em. Pen got performance anxiety lately, notebook looks back at me like “man, don’t play it.” Used to black out, knock ’em out; now I blacklist phrases, every punchline sounds pre-owned, dated. I got jokes, but they trip on the way to my mouth, slipped on doubt I’ve been spillin’ around. Inner critic late with rent payments, delayin’, late fees stackin’, eviction notices wavin’. Creative block, call it writer’s arrest, ideas do laps but they’re tired, outta breath. Ghostin’ my own beats, duck calls from the booth, talent still here, just allergic to truth. Voice in my head keeps hijackin’ the set: “Don’t even, dude, you just trash, don’t get cute.” I got a feat with myself, that’s awkward. Split personality splittin’ the profits. One side says “chill, you earned this,” other’s like “naah, you washed, be honest.” I’m beefin’ at the mirror, it answered somethin’— the reflection claps back, just roastin’ me subtly. Chased highs before, now I stick to the tactic— punchline late, like it’s stuck in traffic. I rehearse comebacks I never deploy, like a gun in a drawer full of memos to Freud, rap game therapy, copay my soul, still diagnose myself as clinically bored. Every bar got a twin that sounds better online, every thought plagiarized by my timeline, I bite my own style, chew it twice, rewind, spit it out like “Naaah… ain’t mine.” Ego on mute, but it’s written in caps: “you fell off, fam”—nail-carved in facts. I argue with silence, it don’t talk back, just sits there smug like it knows where I’m at. Brain bufferin’, wheel just spinnin’, flow still there but the thrill gone missin’, inner me freakin’, ad-libbin’ cynicism. I got a feat with myself, no label, split-screen convo—both sides unstable, one says “genius, misunderstood,” other: “sure, bro—mid at best, be grateful.” Laugh at my pain like it owes me clout, sell self-doubt in a premium pouch, used to set trends, now I set alarms, wake up mad I ain’t inspired or dead. My bars sleepin’ through class— a pack of whack-ass rhymes and metaphors, keep stackin’ in stacks. I don’t hate rap, I hate my reflection. ZeroRhymes?? More like zero affection. Inner voice got a residency— just hecklin’ me from the front row seat. Thoughts on repeat, I’m stuck, skipin’ the hook. The mirror says, “You got the look.” But my pen still shook. I got a feat with myself, no peace treaty, both of us petty, both sides needy, one wants art, one wants receipts, meet in the middle like “fine… just bleed me.” I used to murder beats for a livin’, now press lines till they confess they ain’t worth repeatin’. If this a drought, I’m pissin’ on it, call it irrigation by sheer commitment. Speechin’ feature… Pen still twitchin’… Inner voice preachin’… I’m not reachin’… Same old brain, new excuses, still got venom, just aim more useless, if this a crisis— cool, I’ll use it, feat with myself… just to prove I don’t lose it…