Lyrics

You mistook my stillness for softness,
My silence for kneeling, my grace for your office.
But hear me now—just once, not twice—
This voice is blade, not sugar, not spice.

To speak to me? That’s earned, not lent.
And you—are bankrupt. Your credit’s spent.
You lost your access when you dared presume
That your breath bore brilliance, not just perfume.

You let mediocrity drip from your tongue
Like prophecy preached by the loud and the young.
You strutted in circles, mistook them for thrones,
But a crown means nothing when it’s built from bones.

I don’t bow to arrogance dressed in disguise,
Or boys who bark when no real man replies.
I don’t debate ants on the rise of Rome,
Or beg for crumbs in a house I own.

I walk where empires catch my flame—
And name the ashes after my mother’s name.
While you—throw tantrums at ceilings of glass,
Calling it war when it’s barely a gasp.

Your speech is a patchwork, threadbare and torn,
A chorus of quotes from men you mourn.
You echo the dead, but you birth no thought—
Just hand-me-down fury you barely caught.

Your voice? A scratch on the vinyl of time,
Repeating nonsense in rhythm, not rhyme.
Do you think volume replaces worth?
That breath alone is proof of birth?

My silence is sacred, my presence, rare—
I don’t waste gold on thin, stale air.
You fill the void just to hear your name,
While I break the void and rewrite the game.

No—I don’t seek your praise, your nod,
I am not a petal, I am the god.
I don’t grant access for ego’s parade,
I offer no stage for your thin charade.

To speak to me is not your right—
It’s the spark of day against velvet night.
Your voice is graffiti on sacred walls,
Your presence a trespass that gallantly sprawls.

So speak again—if theft’s your trade.
Each syllable you spill gets weighed.
And I will tally every sin
You cast at gates you’ll never win.

Because this voice is not your toy—
Not your fodder, not your ploy.
It is carved of fire, bone, and breath—
A tongue that speaks of life and death.

This space? It’s hallowed, wrapped in flame.
Not some auction block to stake your claim.
So if you crawl back through my door,
Know you were not a guest before.

You were never in the reckoning.
You begged where you weren’t seen.
Now take this silence, sharp and clean—
My final gift, barbed and serene.