TMH - Hypnotic Vibes

Heat. Heat.
Near snakes on the white concrete.
The mirror shows a ghost I used to meet.
The silence breaks—and beast.
Hypnotic rhythm skips the we.
She asked me why the men I taste like chrome.
I told her some of us never make it home.
Die with arms of frequency unknown.
Hypnotic vibes—we ride it to the bone.
The base to be—the night to ride.
No headlights, just a glide.
The real view swallows the lights.
We don’t stop until the sun rise dies.
Speed is just a prayer with no reply.
The faster I go, the less I question why.
As for the shape of every goodbye—
If not a silence is my alibi.
She tra the stereo with paint and nails.
Said, “Drive me with the memory derails.”
I laugh now through the veils.
Hypnotives—the darkest never f—
The base too deep tonight.
No head—just a
Real view swallows a lie.
We don’t stop until the sun r—
The tires talking tongs.
I understand every cousin covering every lane I’m playing.
She let her hair out.
Let the vin land—not the city’s in my hand.
Then I met the mad—if the fuel gauge lies.
Every red light’s a compromise.
We cut the corners where the real world dies.
If not, the only truth is the rise.
So let them sleep inside the viral walls.
We only echo when the midnight calls
The roll of scripture. The rubber spraws.
If not, the night never scrolls.
If not, the night never started.
The base too deep—the night.
No headlights—just a blast. Just a light.
The rear view swallows the lies.
We don’t stop until the sun rise.
Just all right.