Lyrics

You seem to have mistaken my stillness
for softness.
My silence for submission.
But let me clarify something, and do listen closely,
because I won’t repeat myself
for the convenience of the disposable.

Speaking to me is a privilege.
And you—
You do not have privileges.
Not anymore.

You forfeited access the moment
you opened your mouth
and let mediocrity spill out
as if it were gospel.
As if the world owed you reverence
for simply inhaling and exhaling
without choking on your own irrelevance.

I don’t entertain arrogance masked as confidence,
nor weakness wrapped in entitlement.
I don’t entertain boys
who call themselves kings
because no one else will kneel. I do not debate with ants
about the architecture of empires.
I do not seek validation from dust
that clings to my heels
as I walk past.

Understand this:
I do not stand in the same arena as you.
You throw stones at glass ceilings
and call it rebellion.
I burn the building down
and name the ashes after my mother.

You speak with the vocabulary of the uninformed,
dripping with borrowed ideologies
you barely comprehend.
Your thoughts arrive late
and uninvited,
clumsy echoes
of men who had better enemies than you could ever earn.

Your mouth moves like a scratched record—
loud, broken, and pathetically repetitive.
Do you think volume
equals value?
Do you think presence
equals permission?
My attention is not a reflex.
It is a currency.
Expensive. Finite.
And not to be squandered
on the emotionally bankrupt.

You speak to fill silence.
I speak to reshape it.
When I open my mouth,
worlds shift.
When you open yours,
we all just wish it would close again.


You see, I am not the one
you impress.
I am the one
you endure.
And I don’t deal in approval.
I deal in access.
And you?
Are locked out.

Your conversation is a trespass.
Your opinion, unsolicited graffiti
on the cathedral of my time.
Your words are oil on silk—
staining spaces you were never worthy to enter.

So speak again—if you must.
But know that every syllable
is a theft,
and I will remember
everything
you dared to try and take.

Because this voice,
this space,
this mind,
is not public property.

It is earned.

So let me gift you this silence
wrapped in barbed wire:
You are not owed my voice.
You are not entitled to my time.
And if you ever find yourself
wandering through the corridors of my presence again—
remember this:

Speaking to me is a privilege.
And you?
You were never even in the running
You have nothing
but the audacity to beg
where you were never even seen.